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Chicago artist Carrie Goldman paints a family portrait of adoption.Sun, 02 Dec 2018 08:46:45 -0600en-usWear Star Wars Share Star Wars 2018http://www.chicagonow.com/portrait-of-an-adoption/2018/12/wear-star-wars-share-star-wars-2018/
http://www.chicagonow.com/portrait-of-an-adoption/2018/12/wear-star-wars-share-star-wars-2018/#commentsSun, 02 Dec 2018 08:46:45 -0600Carrie Goldmanhttp://www.chicagonow.com/portrait-of-an-adoption/?p=7485Wear Star Wars Share Star Wars Day. The celebration will last through the weekend, so you have more than one chance to show your Star Wars spirit.
How to Participate
There are three simple ways to celebrate this amazing event! You can participate on an individual level, or you can organize a group celebration at your company, school, etc.

Wear something that shows your Star Wars pride.

Donate a new, unwrapped Star Wars toy to a child in need (but please put a post-it note on each new, unwrapped toy specifying thatit can go to a girl or a boy;otherwise, these traditional "boy toys" will be given only to boys).

Share a picture of yourself in your Star Wars clothing or costume on theFacebook event pageor on Twitter with the hashtag #WearStarWarsShareStarWars2018

Wear Star Wars Share Star Wars Day is an opportunity to wear your favorite Star Wars clothing, donate new Star Wars toys to needy kids in time for the holidays, AND take a stand against gender-based bullying!
Background
This amazing event originated in November of 2010, when the international community of Star Wars fans rallied to support my first grade daughter Katie, who was being taunted by the kids at school because she was a girl who loved Star Wars.
Aided by the speed and ease of social media, thousands of people sent the story ofStar Wars Katiezipping around the globe. Your voices have been passionate and compassionate, and they continue to inspire us to support others year after year.
Members of the 501stLegion even banded together to build Katie a custom set of Stormtrooper armor in 2012. Two years later, Katie gave her one-of-a-kind armor to a bullied little girl named Allison, and in the summer of 2015, Allison passed the armor forward yet again to a littlebullied girl named Layla. The Sisterhood of the Traveling Armor is testimony to the goodness inherent in people, especially Star Wars fans.
Every December, on a Friday, we now holdWear Star Wars Share Star Wars day.
Wear Star Wars, Share Star Wars: School Programming Ideas for Bullying Prevention

Invite each child to wear or bring something Star Wars-related (or, to make it more inclusive, the children can pick ANYTHING special to wear that represents a special interest of theirs).

Invite each child to bring a new, unwrapped toy to donate to a holiday toy drive. In the classrooms, the children can create Gift Tags to attach to each toy that say, “This toy can go to a girl or a boy.” This is to prevent the toys from being segregated by gender, which only reinforces stereotypes. The school can collect all the toys and bring them to a Toys-for-Tots collection site. If you have a lot, ask if Toys for Tots will do a pickup at your school.

Older students can write a play about gender stereotypes and perform it for the younger students. In one school, the fourth graders put together an amazing play. It featured a girl who was pressured to try out for cheerleading, even though she really wanted to play basketball. The girl had to find a way to tell her friends that her interests were different from theirs. At first, the other girls rejected her, but one classmate eventually supported her, and others started to speak up too. In the end, the cheerleaders showed up at one of the girl’s basketball games to cheer her on.The fourth graders performed the play for grades K-3 and then held a discussion.

Students can make signs or posters about how there are all different ways to be a boy or a girl. Posters might show both boys and girls doing diverse activities such as cooking or drawing or playing soccer or dancing. A girl might love ballet and Star Wars too! A boy might love My Little Pony and cars and trucks too.

A teacher can hold a class discussion about new ways for stores to label toys, instead of toys being labeled “Girls’ Toys” and “Boys’ Toys”. What types of labels can students envision? What types of toys would belong to each group? The class could then design a mock toy store and plan out the shelves. One section of a toy store might be labeled “Building Toys”. In that section, we might find Legos, Megablocks, etc. Another section might be labeled “Nurturing Toys” and could include baby dolls, toy strollers, toy cribs, etc. There could be a section called “Fashion Toys” that includes fashion dolls, jewelry craft kits, etc. Try it out, and see what your students create!

Students can watch scenes from Star Wars that feature women in strong roles; for example, Princess Leia aids the rescue mission on Tatooine in Return of the Jedi by killing Jaba the Hut, using the same chains with which she was enslaved. Students can discuss the metaphor of Leia using her slave chains to overcome her captor. Or they could discuss how, in the Phantom Menace, Queen Amidala leads the attack force into the capital to liberate her planet from the Trade Federation's Invasion Force. Or they could discuss how Rey, an unknown scavenger, discovers in The Force Awakens that she has enormous hidden Jedi powers that allow her to defeat Kylo Ren both cognitively and physically. Maybe they could examine how Jyn Erso led Rogue One in stealing the Death Star plans.

Each classroom teacher can hold a Sharing Circle, where the kids sit in a circle on the floor. Each child gets a chance to share and explain why he or she is a fan of Star Wars (or whatever else the child has chosen to represent).

Another way to do the Sharing Circle is to invite the students to write a short essay about why they love Star Wars – or whatever else they choose -- and they can read the essays to the class at the Sharing Circle.

To use the Sharing Circle as an opportunity to encourage students to develop more empathy for each other, the teacher can assign partners. The partners can interview each other about their special interests. During the Sharing Circle, the students can share their findings about their partner with the class as a whole.

As you are out doing your holiday shopping and purchasing new Star Wars toys, go ahead and buy just one more toy to donate.
Here are some pictures from previous WSWSSW Days:
* * * *
Carrie Goldmanis the writer of Portrait of an Adoption and the creator of Wear Star Wars Share Star Wars Day. She is an award-winning author, speaker, and bullying prevention educator. Follow Carrie's blog Portrait of an Adoption onFacebookandTwitterTo continue receiving posts from Portrait of an Adoption, simply type your email address in the box and click the "create subscription" button.

]]>Wear Star Wars Share Star Wars Day. The celebration will last through the weekend, so you have more than one chance to show your Star Wars spirit.
How to Participate
There are three simple ways to celebrate this amazing event! You can participate on an individual level, or you can organize a group celebration at your company, school, etc.

Wear something that shows your Star Wars pride.

Donate a new, unwrapped Star Wars toy to a child in need (but please put a post-it note on each new, unwrapped toy specifying thatit can go to a girl or a boy;otherwise, these traditional "boy toys" will be given only to boys).

Share a picture of yourself in your Star Wars clothing or costume on theFacebook event pageor on Twitter with the hashtag #WearStarWarsShareStarWars2018

Wear Star Wars Share Star Wars Day is an opportunity to wear your favorite Star Wars clothing, donate new Star Wars toys to needy kids in time for the holidays, AND take a stand against gender-based bullying!
Background
This amazing event originated in November of 2010, when the international community of Star Wars fans rallied to support my first grade daughter Katie, who was being taunted by the kids at school because she was a girl who loved Star Wars.
Aided by the speed and ease of social media, thousands of people sent the story ofStar Wars Katiezipping around the globe. Your voices have been passionate and compassionate, and they continue to inspire us to support others year after year.
Members of the 501stLegion even banded together to build Katie a custom set of Stormtrooper armor in 2012. Two years later, Katie gave her one-of-a-kind armor to a bullied little girl named Allison, and in the summer of 2015, Allison passed the armor forward yet again to a littlebullied girl named Layla. The Sisterhood of the Traveling Armor is testimony to the goodness inherent in people, especially Star Wars fans.
Every December, on a Friday, we now holdWear Star Wars Share Star Wars day.
Wear Star Wars, Share Star Wars: School Programming Ideas for Bullying Prevention

Invite each child to wear or bring something Star Wars-related (or, to make it more inclusive, the children can pick ANYTHING special to wear that represents a special interest of theirs).

Invite each child to bring a new, unwrapped toy to donate to a holiday toy drive. In the classrooms, the children can create Gift Tags to attach to each toy that say, “This toy can go to a girl or a boy.” This is to prevent the toys from being segregated by gender, which only reinforces stereotypes. The school can collect all the toys and bring them to a Toys-for-Tots collection site. If you have a lot, ask if Toys for Tots will do a pickup at your school.

Older students can write a play about gender stereotypes and perform it for the younger students. In one school, the fourth graders put together an amazing play. It featured a girl who was pressured to try out for cheerleading, even though she really wanted to play basketball. The girl had to find a way to tell her friends that her interests were different from theirs. At first, the other girls rejected her, but one classmate eventually supported her, and others started to speak up too. In the end, the cheerleaders showed up at one of the girl’s basketball games to cheer her on.The fourth graders performed the play for grades K-3 and then held a discussion.

Students can make signs or posters about how there are all different ways to be a boy or a girl. Posters might show both boys and girls doing diverse activities such as cooking or drawing or playing soccer or dancing. A girl might love ballet and Star Wars too! A boy might love My Little Pony and cars and trucks too.

A teacher can hold a class discussion about new ways for stores to label toys, instead of toys being labeled “Girls’ Toys” and “Boys’ Toys”. What types of labels can students envision? What types of toys would belong to each group? The class could then design a mock toy store and plan out the shelves. One section of a toy store might be labeled “Building Toys”. In that section, we might find Legos, Megablocks, etc. Another section might be labeled “Nurturing Toys” and could include baby dolls, toy strollers, toy cribs, etc. There could be a section called “Fashion Toys” that includes fashion dolls, jewelry craft kits, etc. Try it out, and see what your students create!

Students can watch scenes from Star Wars that feature women in strong roles; for example, Princess Leia aids the rescue mission on Tatooine in Return of the Jedi by killing Jaba the Hut, using the same chains with which she was enslaved. Students can discuss the metaphor of Leia using her slave chains to overcome her captor. Or they could discuss how, in the Phantom Menace, Queen Amidala leads the attack force into the capital to liberate her planet from the Trade Federation's Invasion Force. Or they could discuss how Rey, an unknown scavenger, discovers in The Force Awakens that she has enormous hidden Jedi powers that allow her to defeat Kylo Ren both cognitively and physically. Maybe they could examine how Jyn Erso led Rogue One in stealing the Death Star plans.

Each classroom teacher can hold a Sharing Circle, where the kids sit in a circle on the floor. Each child gets a chance to share and explain why he or she is a fan of Star Wars (or whatever else the child has chosen to represent).

Another way to do the Sharing Circle is to invite the students to write a short essay about why they love Star Wars – or whatever else they choose -- and they can read the essays to the class at the Sharing Circle.

To use the Sharing Circle as an opportunity to encourage students to develop more empathy for each other, the teacher can assign partners. The partners can interview each other about their special interests. During the Sharing Circle, the students can share their findings about their partner with the class as a whole.

As you are out doing your holiday shopping and purchasing new Star Wars toys, go ahead and buy just one more toy to donate.
Here are some pictures from previous WSWSSW Days:
* * * *
Carrie Goldmanis the writer of Portrait of an Adoption and the creator of Wear Star Wars Share Star Wars Day. She is an award-winning author, speaker, and bullying prevention educator. Follow Carrie's blog Portrait of an Adoption onFacebookandTwitterTo continue receiving posts from Portrait of an Adoption, simply type your email address in the box and click the "create subscription" button.

]]>You Have a Piece of My Heart and I Have a Piece of Yourshttp://www.chicagonow.com/portrait-of-an-adoption/2018/11/you-have-a-piece-of-my-heart-and-i-have-a-piece-of-yours/
http://www.chicagonow.com/portrait-of-an-adoption/2018/11/you-have-a-piece-of-my-heart-and-i-have-a-piece-of-yours/#commentsFri, 30 Nov 2018 08:11:32 -0600Carrie Goldmanhttp://www.chicagonow.com/portrait-of-an-adoption/?p=7479Welcome to 30 Adoption Portraits in 30 Days, hosted by Portrait of an Adoption. This series will feature guest posts by people with widely varying adoption experiences and perspectives.
By Dayna Farr
My birth mom loved me so much she sacrificed her own happiness to give me to a family that could provide the kind of life she was unable to at the time of my arrival. She did it because she loved me and I always felt her love, just as I felt the love of the mother who raised me.
My parents gave me great perspective of the path that had brought me to them and I am often reminded of how wonderful it truly was. It had taken years of interviews, meetings with countless social workers and background checks on everyone they had ever known before they received the call their bundle of joy was waiting for them.
They had almost given up hope. It was the day after the election and my poor mother had been up all night counting and recounting ballots. Her eyes were practically swollen shut and her much needed slumber had been interrupted by a ringing telephone. She was so tired that she abruptly answered it, but her tone quickly changed as she was told their baby was finally here.
She then called my father who immediately locked up his business and raced home. I met my new family on my third day of life and coincidentally, my maternal grandmother’s birthday, so it was impeccable timing. There is so much joy and happiness associated with that story and I never get tired of hearing it.
I don’t remember a time I didn’t know I was adopted. My parents were extremely open and honest with me. They set the tone of gratitude which in turn gave me an open heart and a greater compassion for people in tough circumstances.
Throughout my childhood and teenage years, I always wondered about my biological family, who they were and what they were like. I don’t think I felt like I didn’t belong any more than any other awkward kid trying to make their way through the world. But like everyone I had struggles, which at times had to do with the fact I was adopted. So I grew and learned and I now perceive it as one of the greatest gifts of my life.
You really don’t know and cannot even comprehend how much emotion you can have for another human being until you have your own child. As my eyes gazed upon my perfect little daughter for the first time, it was like a lightning bolt hit my soul and I got it.
In that brief moment I finally unequivocally understood how much both my mothers loved me and I knew one day I had to find my biological mother, if for no other reason than to thank her for a beautiful life.
Ten years and another sweet daughter later, I finally got up the courage to file the court papers to open up my records. My parents were a bit hesitant, but they warmed up to the idea. Given nothing but a name, my best friend and I frantically searched for and ultimately found my birth mother.
Her name was Lil and she welcomed me back into her life, as did my brother, sister and countless relatives. To say it was amazing is the biggest understatement there ever was. She was part of my life for many years.
During the past few years I have helped care for my father, as his health has been failing. Two weeks after making the heart wrenching decision to put my dad on hospice, I got a text from my sister Shawnee explaining that my bio mom Lil was in the hospital.
A few days later Lil and I were able to FaceTime and she gave me her prognosis. My heart sank and it felt as though someone had punched me in the stomach. She asked me if I had any questions and assured me she was at peace with it, although I knew she wasn’t and neither was I. All I could think was that we needed to make the most of the time we had. And we did.
Lil had gone to stay at my sister and brother in law’s house, so we all congregated there or at the hospital, whichever place the doctors told us she needed to be. I took days off, called in sick and spent as much time with her as I could. Her room was consistently full of visitors and there was laughter and joy sprinkled with the occasional tear or two.
Every time it came up, we told the story -- our story. With each explanation of our relationship, I seemed to get the same stunned reaction, they were always surprised I was there. The same question, spoken with exorbitant confusion and befuddlement on the face of the inquisitor.
I would then explain, this wonderful woman, my first mother had sacrificed so much for me to have a beautiful life. It was my job and my honor to help care for her in the last days of her life. Our hospice clergy was actually moved to tears and then explained her father had given up a son as well, so it gave her hope for her own family.
I heard constant apologizing from Lil and she was absolutely embarrassed because illness is not pretty, nor comfortable, and I would reassure her that this is what your children do. I knew that she would do it for me, so I was happy to do this for her.
One particularly rough night she called me to the side of her bed. She told me to take her hand, to look into her eyes and to tell my mama I forgave her. She went on to explain that she didn’t want me to feel like she had chosen my siblings over me.
My heart shattered into a million pieces. With tears streaming down my face and a huge lump in my throat I explained that there was no reason for forgiveness. I really owed her because she had done so much for me. She had selflessly put her own feelings aside to do what was in my best interest.
I told her I loved her, my children loved her and that my parents loved and appreciated her too. Sadly, I knew this day might come. I was hoping against hope that we were past this and our reunion had paved the way for forgiveness, because it was not me that needed to forgive her. She needed to forgive herself.
Parenting on its best day is all about being insecure and feeling guilty, especially for those parents who have had to make the difficult decision to place their children for adoption. I am forever thankful to have not one but two women to call mom.
My sister and I each held one of our mother’s hands as she took her last breath and went to live with the angels. Fourteen years with your biological mom isn’t enough, but what amount of time could possibly ever be sufficient?
So, now I will mourn her the way she mourned me before we reconnected. I am certain the extreme heartache and loss I feel is just a fraction of the pain she endured and I am grateful for the selfless love she gave me.
I spoke at her celebration of life. As friends and family -- both biological and adopted looked on -- I talked about Lil, my mom, and I ended with this. “You have a piece of my heart and I have a piece of yours. Always have always will. And I will carry it with me until we meet again. Love you. I’ll see you on the flip side.” And I blew her a great big kiss.
Gratitude, love and forgiveness are the fundamentals of life and seem to be a resounding theme in every adoption story. I always felt lucky to be adopted and to have such a unique family, but this summer I found out how truly blessed I am.
Dayna Farr is a middle-aged mom of two wonderful, smart, beautiful grown women. She has a great son-in-law and two of the most amazing grandchildren anyone could imagine. She has had a blessed life and it began with adoption.
* * * *
Carrie Goldman is the host of Portrait of an Adoption. She is an award-winning author, speaker, and bullying prevention educator. Follow Carrie's blog Portrait of an Adoption on Facebook and TwitterTo continue receiving posts from Portrait of an Adoption, simply type your email address in the box and click the "create subscription" button.

]]>Welcome to 30 Adoption Portraits in 30 Days, hosted by Portrait of an Adoption. This series will feature guest posts by people with widely varying adoption experiences and perspectives.
By Dayna Farr
My birth mom loved me so much she sacrificed her own happiness to give me to a family that could provide the kind of life she was unable to at the time of my arrival. She did it because she loved me and I always felt her love, just as I felt the love of the mother who raised me.
My parents gave me great perspective of the path that had brought me to them and I am often reminded of how wonderful it truly was. It had taken years of interviews, meetings with countless social workers and background checks on everyone they had ever known before they received the call their bundle of joy was waiting for them.
They had almost given up hope. It was the day after the election and my poor mother had been up all night counting and recounting ballots. Her eyes were practically swollen shut and her much needed slumber had been interrupted by a ringing telephone. She was so tired that she abruptly answered it, but her tone quickly changed as she was told their baby was finally here.
She then called my father who immediately locked up his business and raced home. I met my new family on my third day of life and coincidentally, my maternal grandmother’s birthday, so it was impeccable timing. There is so much joy and happiness associated with that story and I never get tired of hearing it.
I don’t remember a time I didn’t know I was adopted. My parents were extremely open and honest with me. They set the tone of gratitude which in turn gave me an open heart and a greater compassion for people in tough circumstances.
Throughout my childhood and teenage years, I always wondered about my biological family, who they were and what they were like. I don’t think I felt like I didn’t belong any more than any other awkward kid trying to make their way through the world. But like everyone I had struggles, which at times had to do with the fact I was adopted. So I grew and learned and I now perceive it as one of the greatest gifts of my life.
You really don’t know and cannot even comprehend how much emotion you can have for another human being until you have your own child. As my eyes gazed upon my perfect little daughter for the first time, it was like a lightning bolt hit my soul and I got it.
In that brief moment I finally unequivocally understood how much both my mothers loved me and I knew one day I had to find my biological mother, if for no other reason than to thank her for a beautiful life.
Ten years and another sweet daughter later, I finally got up the courage to file the court papers to open up my records. My parents were a bit hesitant, but they warmed up to the idea. Given nothing but a name, my best friend and I frantically searched for and ultimately found my birth mother.
Her name was Lil and she welcomed me back into her life, as did my brother, sister and countless relatives. To say it was amazing is the biggest understatement there ever was. She was part of my life for many years.
During the past few years I have helped care for my father, as his health has been failing. Two weeks after making the heart wrenching decision to put my dad on hospice, I got a text from my sister Shawnee explaining that my bio mom Lil was in the hospital.
A few days later Lil and I were able to FaceTime and she gave me her prognosis. My heart sank and it felt as though someone had punched me in the stomach. She asked me if I had any questions and assured me she was at peace with it, although I knew she wasn’t and neither was I. All I could think was that we needed to make the most of the time we had. And we did.
Lil had gone to stay at my sister and brother in law’s house, so we all congregated there or at the hospital, whichever place the doctors told us she needed to be. I took days off, called in sick and spent as much time with her as I could. Her room was consistently full of visitors and there was laughter and joy sprinkled with the occasional tear or two.
Every time it came up, we told the story -- our story. With each explanation of our relationship, I seemed to get the same stunned reaction, they were always surprised I was there. The same question, spoken with exorbitant confusion and befuddlement on the face of the inquisitor.
I would then explain, this wonderful woman, my first mother had sacrificed so much for me to have a beautiful life. It was my job and my honor to help care for her in the last days of her life. Our hospice clergy was actually moved to tears and then explained her father had given up a son as well, so it gave her hope for her own family.
I heard constant apologizing from Lil and she was absolutely embarrassed because illness is not pretty, nor comfortable, and I would reassure her that this is what your children do. I knew that she would do it for me, so I was happy to do this for her.
One particularly rough night she called me to the side of her bed. She told me to take her hand, to look into her eyes and to tell my mama I forgave her. She went on to explain that she didn’t want me to feel like she had chosen my siblings over me.
My heart shattered into a million pieces. With tears streaming down my face and a huge lump in my throat I explained that there was no reason for forgiveness. I really owed her because she had done so much for me. She had selflessly put her own feelings aside to do what was in my best interest.
I told her I loved her, my children loved her and that my parents loved and appreciated her too. Sadly, I knew this day might come. I was hoping against hope that we were past this and our reunion had paved the way for forgiveness, because it was not me that needed to forgive her. She needed to forgive herself.
Parenting on its best day is all about being insecure and feeling guilty, especially for those parents who have had to make the difficult decision to place their children for adoption. I am forever thankful to have not one but two women to call mom.
My sister and I each held one of our mother’s hands as she took her last breath and went to live with the angels. Fourteen years with your biological mom isn’t enough, but what amount of time could possibly ever be sufficient?
So, now I will mourn her the way she mourned me before we reconnected. I am certain the extreme heartache and loss I feel is just a fraction of the pain she endured and I am grateful for the selfless love she gave me.
I spoke at her celebration of life. As friends and family -- both biological and adopted looked on -- I talked about Lil, my mom, and I ended with this. “You have a piece of my heart and I have a piece of yours. Always have always will. And I will carry it with me until we meet again. Love you. I’ll see you on the flip side.” And I blew her a great big kiss.
Gratitude, love and forgiveness are the fundamentals of life and seem to be a resounding theme in every adoption story. I always felt lucky to be adopted and to have such a unique family, but this summer I found out how truly blessed I am.
Dayna Farr is a middle-aged mom of two wonderful, smart, beautiful grown women. She has a great son-in-law and two of the most amazing grandchildren anyone could imagine. She has had a blessed life and it began with adoption.
* * * *
Carrie Goldman is the host of Portrait of an Adoption. She is an award-winning author, speaker, and bullying prevention educator. Follow Carrie's blog Portrait of an Adoption on Facebook and TwitterTo continue receiving posts from Portrait of an Adoption, simply type your email address in the box and click the "create subscription" button.

]]>A Week With An Eight-Year-Oldhttp://www.chicagonow.com/portrait-of-an-adoption/2018/11/a-week-with-an-eight-year-old/
http://www.chicagonow.com/portrait-of-an-adoption/2018/11/a-week-with-an-eight-year-old/#commentsThu, 29 Nov 2018 05:51:47 -0600Carrie Goldmanhttp://www.chicagonow.com/portrait-of-an-adoption/?p=7474Welcome to 30 Adoption Portraits in 30 Days, hosted by Portrait of an Adoption. This series will feature guest posts by people with widely varying adoption experiences and perspectives.
By Josie Mae Rigney
“What the flip?”
“Say bubble nuggets!”
“I have four girlfriends… well, I just got that one.”
“Son of a cracker!”
“I didn’t do it! I didn’t do it today or yesterday or tomorrow!”
High highs and low lows – sometimes I think I am not cut out for this, and other times, I think it is all I can do. He called me mom on the second day. He called Eddie dad. He climbs on me like I am a tree and doesn’t like to be alone.
I sit with him while he brushes his teeth. I read while he plays. I realized I don’t know how to play anymore. He will argue about anything. He got mad when I said that I wasn’t worried about Chuckie getting me at 3 am if I watched the movie. He got scared of the Five Nights at Freddie movie toys and spiders. He sleeps with a night light, plays with the cats, and is gentle with the dog. He does the running man at breakfast. When he got scratched, he came to me with tears in his eyes.
Now, he brags. He loves Sonic, Spiderman, and Ninja Turtles, but Sonic most of all. Eddie surprised him and sewed up his Spiderman suit while he was at camp. He plays Minecraft and Roblox, for hours if I let him. He argues about meals, wanting whatever he doesn’t have. He says he worries about being fat, but at age eight, he probably weighs less than 40 pounds. He throws fits over the strangest things, and if we are in public, and he is upset, he will run away just to see if we chase him, but he doesn’t want to be treated like a baby. He loves Legos.
He has a mom, and she calls about once a week. When you talk to her about what is going on, she gets defensive. Both he and his mom have said that if he is bad, it is not his fault because he has been through a lot.
I have decided that parents, parents in general, are some sort of twisted sadists-masochists, but I can’t give up or stop or say no or give in. He can pout for hours and love for days. He told me he doesn’t like to read when he first got here a week ago.
This morning he told me it was his favorite subject in school. We read every night before bed and each night he falls asleep faster and faster. We read on the couch. We read comics and graphic novels. We read about animals: sharks, deer, ants, and insects. He told me he knows everything, but he looks to me for every answer, and tomorrow he says goodbye, when he wants to stay.
I barely know where he came from; I don’t know where he’s going. He has two backpacks. One with a broken strap, for day camp, and one with four pairs of shorts, 7-8 shirts, socks, and underwear… oh yes, and a Spiderman costume. We added a plastic sword, a few cars, coloring books and pencils, a toothbrush, and not much else.
My mother says she needs to spoil me a little, that she never gets me anything, that she wants to do more for me, and we are going on a cruise where she largely bought me a wardrobe. His mother called once a week while he was living with strangers. She texted “Be good to my boy.” A father figure called once. Each of these phone calls lasted less than five minutes. She said she was doing her best, but we are not supposed to judge.
We are supposed to go into this and do our best, and reserve judgement. But I am Judgy McJucdgeface, but none of this matters, because he leaves tomorrow to go to someplace and someone new.
Eddie wants a girl. I want a girl, but mostly I want a child, but regardless of all of this, I leave for a month-long trip in a few days, and we were told this placement would only be a week. It was only a week.
We are fingers crossed, papers signed, and I’s dotted, 3/4ths of the way through adopting a little girl who is his age from another state. Who knows who she will be or how we will do? This process started long before the 8-year old boy was in the picture, before he was a twinkle in this mother’s eye, and I think Eddie knew I wouldn’t be able to say goodbye to a child, but he said yes anyways because he was sick of fighting me every time, every time they called for a placement. I didn’t know the boy existed, and he didn’t know me.
They called for a five-year-old angry boy, for an eighteen-year-old woman’s one night stay, who couldn’t settle, and didn’t last in her placement after us, (We found plastic nails everywhere, and Eddie said she couldn’t come back), for a teen boy who needed to stay a week, for a seventeen-year-old boy who needed one night, then, for this boy, this eight-year-old boy who stayed a week, who gets so mad, but feels bad when he says “pissed” and says “Son of a cracker!” with a straight face, this boy who loves Sonic, and says he knows everything.
How do you leave in the morning not knowing where you are coming home to at night? How do you go, not knowing if you will ever come back? How do parents drop their kids off every morning and just trust they will be okay? There is so much trust we must have in this world, and these kids can’t trust anything, and then, we wonder why they can’t trust anyone.
Josie Mae Rigney is new to the world of respite, foster care, and adoption. She and her husband Eddie want to adopt. She is convinced this journey is meant to lead them to unexpected places. She is a dreamer who can't say no and doesn't always know her limits. Her husband is anxiety ridden but wants to do anything to make her happy, and they are trying to become more than just a family of two with a lot of animals.
* * * *
Carrie Goldman is the host of Portrait of an Adoption. She is an award-winning author, speaker, and bullying prevention educator. Follow Carrie's blog Portrait of an Adoption on Facebook and TwitterTo continue receiving posts from Portrait of an Adoption, simply type your email address in the box and click the "create subscription" button.

]]>Welcome to 30 Adoption Portraits in 30 Days, hosted by Portrait of an Adoption. This series will feature guest posts by people with widely varying adoption experiences and perspectives.
By Josie Mae Rigney
“What the flip?”
“Say bubble nuggets!”
“I have four girlfriends… well, I just got that one.”
“Son of a cracker!”
“I didn’t do it! I didn’t do it today or yesterday or tomorrow!”
High highs and low lows – sometimes I think I am not cut out for this, and other times, I think it is all I can do. He called me mom on the second day. He called Eddie dad. He climbs on me like I am a tree and doesn’t like to be alone.
I sit with him while he brushes his teeth. I read while he plays. I realized I don’t know how to play anymore. He will argue about anything. He got mad when I said that I wasn’t worried about Chuckie getting me at 3 am if I watched the movie. He got scared of the Five Nights at Freddie movie toys and spiders. He sleeps with a night light, plays with the cats, and is gentle with the dog. He does the running man at breakfast. When he got scratched, he came to me with tears in his eyes.
Now, he brags. He loves Sonic, Spiderman, and Ninja Turtles, but Sonic most of all. Eddie surprised him and sewed up his Spiderman suit while he was at camp. He plays Minecraft and Roblox, for hours if I let him. He argues about meals, wanting whatever he doesn’t have. He says he worries about being fat, but at age eight, he probably weighs less than 40 pounds. He throws fits over the strangest things, and if we are in public, and he is upset, he will run away just to see if we chase him, but he doesn’t want to be treated like a baby. He loves Legos.
He has a mom, and she calls about once a week. When you talk to her about what is going on, she gets defensive. Both he and his mom have said that if he is bad, it is not his fault because he has been through a lot.
I have decided that parents, parents in general, are some sort of twisted sadists-masochists, but I can’t give up or stop or say no or give in. He can pout for hours and love for days. He told me he doesn’t like to read when he first got here a week ago.
This morning he told me it was his favorite subject in school. We read every night before bed and each night he falls asleep faster and faster. We read on the couch. We read comics and graphic novels. We read about animals: sharks, deer, ants, and insects. He told me he knows everything, but he looks to me for every answer, and tomorrow he says goodbye, when he wants to stay.
I barely know where he came from; I don’t know where he’s going. He has two backpacks. One with a broken strap, for day camp, and one with four pairs of shorts, 7-8 shirts, socks, and underwear… oh yes, and a Spiderman costume. We added a plastic sword, a few cars, coloring books and pencils, a toothbrush, and not much else.
My mother says she needs to spoil me a little, that she never gets me anything, that she wants to do more for me, and we are going on a cruise where she largely bought me a wardrobe. His mother called once a week while he was living with strangers. She texted “Be good to my boy.” A father figure called once. Each of these phone calls lasted less than five minutes. She said she was doing her best, but we are not supposed to judge.
We are supposed to go into this and do our best, and reserve judgement. But I am Judgy McJucdgeface, but none of this matters, because he leaves tomorrow to go to someplace and someone new.
Eddie wants a girl. I want a girl, but mostly I want a child, but regardless of all of this, I leave for a month-long trip in a few days, and we were told this placement would only be a week. It was only a week.
We are fingers crossed, papers signed, and I’s dotted, 3/4ths of the way through adopting a little girl who is his age from another state. Who knows who she will be or how we will do? This process started long before the 8-year old boy was in the picture, before he was a twinkle in this mother’s eye, and I think Eddie knew I wouldn’t be able to say goodbye to a child, but he said yes anyways because he was sick of fighting me every time, every time they called for a placement. I didn’t know the boy existed, and he didn’t know me.
They called for a five-year-old angry boy, for an eighteen-year-old woman’s one night stay, who couldn’t settle, and didn’t last in her placement after us, (We found plastic nails everywhere, and Eddie said she couldn’t come back), for a teen boy who needed to stay a week, for a seventeen-year-old boy who needed one night, then, for this boy, this eight-year-old boy who stayed a week, who gets so mad, but feels bad when he says “pissed” and says “Son of a cracker!” with a straight face, this boy who loves Sonic, and says he knows everything.
How do you leave in the morning not knowing where you are coming home to at night? How do you go, not knowing if you will ever come back? How do parents drop their kids off every morning and just trust they will be okay? There is so much trust we must have in this world, and these kids can’t trust anything, and then, we wonder why they can’t trust anyone.
Josie Mae Rigney is new to the world of respite, foster care, and adoption. She and her husband Eddie want to adopt. She is convinced this journey is meant to lead them to unexpected places. She is a dreamer who can't say no and doesn't always know her limits. Her husband is anxiety ridden but wants to do anything to make her happy, and they are trying to become more than just a family of two with a lot of animals.
* * * *
Carrie Goldman is the host of Portrait of an Adoption. She is an award-winning author, speaker, and bullying prevention educator. Follow Carrie's blog Portrait of an Adoption on Facebook and TwitterTo continue receiving posts from Portrait of an Adoption, simply type your email address in the box and click the "create subscription" button.

]]>The Complicated Calibration of Love, Especially in Adoptionhttp://www.chicagonow.com/portrait-of-an-adoption/2018/11/the-complicated-calibration-of-love-especially-in-adoption/
http://www.chicagonow.com/portrait-of-an-adoption/2018/11/the-complicated-calibration-of-love-especially-in-adoption/#commentsWed, 28 Nov 2018 05:15:33 -0600Carrie Goldmanhttp://www.chicagonow.com/portrait-of-an-adoption/?p=7467Welcome to 30 Adoption Portraits in 30 Days, hosted by Portrait of an Adoption. This series will feature guest posts by people with widely varying adoption experiences and perspectives.
By Carrie Goldman
Love. Such a simple word that encompasses so many possible meanings. I feel love for people in similar and different ways. Love for my husband. Love for my parents. Love for my sisters and my extended family. Love for my friends and their families. Love for my colleagues.
And, the most intense and complex of them all – love for my children. Complex because my children are the only ones who simultaneously crave, reject, embrace, need, challenge, inhale, absorb, return, share, fight, accept and question my love on a daily basis.
They light up with my love; it shines through in their smiles and their eyes. They fear the loss or withdrawal of my love, even when I show them a hundred ways to Sunday that my love is unconditional. They want to quantify my love, even though it can’t be measured. And no one has a more complicated relationship with love than a child who was adopted.
How do I convince my fifteen-year-old, who came to our family through adoption, that I love her as much as I love her younger sisters, who came to our family through our biology?
On a broader level, how does the world convince her she is loved and valued?
The same world that thrust a great injustice upon her by separating her from her first mother and her siblings, the world that passed her along to a doting foster mom to whom she attached and then was separated, the world that dropped her into our outstretched, naïve and eager arms, our greatest joy intricately tied to her greatest sadness, the world that views her story as a happily-ever-after and now expects her to be grateful, happy, well adjusted, and perfect at all times – how does she learn to trust the love of that world?
I love her so very much. And I need to convince her of my love every single day.
To match the giving of love with the exact need of any recipient is a moving calibration. There is no reliable unit of measurement for something so imprecise as human affection. We try. We offer up our love in words and actions, hoping to meet the ever-changing needs of our lovers, our children, our friends and our families – every relationship that matters takes some work.
Sometimes we find a period of time where all is in balance with a person we love. Oh, the bliss of those days or weeks or months where the love offered and the love received is in sync. When time spent together matches the intensity and desire for each other’s company, affections, attention. No one is chasing. No one is fleeing.
But then one person in the relationship inhales the sour breath of the beast that is insecurity, a beast whose presence twists the very air between two humans and makes greater the flaws that beckoned it in the door. Insecurity, also known as fear, feeds on the dark and scary parts of the mind, growing in strength and power as it distorts what is real and what is imagined.
Sometimes insecurity grows too big, until there is almost no space left for the relationship. But the antidote to such despair is hope, and hope fortunately needs less fuel to stay alive. These dynamics occur in any relationship, and the intensity can be magnified by a thousand when one of the partners is an adoptee.
I believe that the choice to be a parent is built on hope. The choice to be an adoptive parent is built on mountains of hope, oceans of hope, forests filled with the hope that a thousand seeds planted might one day yield a mighty tree.
How do I help my daughter choose hope day after day? How can I help her find happiness? How can I show her I love her enough, that her birth family loves her enough? How can I get her to love herself enough?
I ask myself these questions every day. I search for the answers in every place I can. I read books and blogs by adoptees, both those who are in despair and those who have found peace.
In moments of discomfort, I force myself to sit with the anger and rage and pain of the adult adoptees who write with derision and disgust about adoptive parents, because I can learn from their stories. With renewed hope and frank relief, I read and then reread the words of adult adoptees who are doing well, seeking to glean insights on how to help raise a thriving adoptee.
Despite proclaiming to my husband every September and October that it is too much work, I continue to host this thirty-day series every year, because I learn so much from the honest submissions of people who have every possible story to tell about their experience with adoption and foster care, and I know how much their stories need a platform to reach others.
Their stories are invaluable. I observe and listen and wonder what combination of internal resilience, good parenting, genetics, access to birth history, love, acceptance of grief, and endless empathy is needed to raise an adoptee to wholeness.
My oldest girl is my first daughter, and I am not her first mom. Therein lies the conflict. She did not choose this situation; it was foisted upon her and packaged as “you’re so lucky” by the world.
I’ve come to believe that the way through all of this is in allowing and validating ALL the feelings and viewpoints, even the ones that don’t fit the happily-ever-after narrative. It is an indisputable fact that my daughter lost something immeasurable and irreplaceable when she was adopted, and, yes, she also gained a family that brings her huge amounts of laughter, love, and stability.
Radical acceptance of things outside of my control has helped, as has the acknowledgment of unpleasant truths. I did not create the circumstances that led to my child being placed for adoption; those wheels were set in motion long before I ever knew of her existence. Yet, as an adoptive parent, I have come to see that I am also part of a larger system that contributes to her pain. Both of these realities co-exist.
She is allowed to feel all the feelings. She can be the adoptee who is pissed off at what happened to her and she can be the adoptee who is doing well. There’s room for both. She can be furious at me because I’m not her biological mom, and she can love me to the ends of the earth for being her “Mommio”, as she calls me.
Like our biological children, our oldest daughter does have many aspects of her life that are lucky. Lucky to have parents that adore each other, lucky to be able to travel and go to a good school and live in a comfortable home, lucky to have an enormous and doting extended family, lucky to live in a city where we can practice our Jewish faith and our neighbors support us.
And, unlike our biological children, she is terribly horribly unlucky in many ways. Unlucky that she isn’t growing up with her first family, unlucky that she has to wonder if we love her sisters more (we don’t), unlucky that she has to worry about whether we think she’s good enough (we do), and unlucky that she has to battle legitimate fears of abandonment in every relationship she enters.
What seems to be working best for our family is to just open our arms and our hearts and our ears and accept it all, every last conflicting bit of it. Our oldest daughter rages against the unfairness of being adopted. She hates being adopted. And she adores our family more than anything in the world.
As far as the proper calibration of love, we subscribe to the belief that we always have an endless supply of love to offer, and we simply add one more piece of love to the scales when necessary.
When she makes a mistake, we add a piece of love. When she has a success, we add a piece of love. When she questions if her share of the love is enough, we drop a few more pieces of love onto the plate. When she is hungry and no amount of food can fill the emptiness, we serve love with a side of love and love for dessert.
Last year, she programmed herself into our phone as “Most Loved Child” and we all laughed about it, even her sisters, because we all know that it is her way of poking fun at the beast of insecurity that lurks in adoption. I still smile every time she calls and my husband answers the phone with, “Hello, Most Loved Child.”
Those are the moments of balance, when the love is just right. It’s in the laughter, the raucous family dinners, the loud and crazy game nights, the watching of our favorite shows, the groaning at Dad’s jokes, the roughhousing with the little sisters, the Shabbat dinners and the family trips. The astonishing moment when everyone is okay, and the love offered matches the love needed to feel content.
Yes, that is when the calibration of love is just right, and in those moments, I can see the roots and shoots growing from the seeds planted in the garden of hope.
* * * *
Carrie Goldman is the host of Portrait of an Adoption. She is an award-winning author, speaker, and bullying prevention educator. Follow Carrie's blog Portrait of an Adoption on Facebook and TwitterTo continue receiving posts from Portrait of an Adoption, simply type your email address in the box and click the "create subscription" button.

]]>Welcome to 30 Adoption Portraits in 30 Days, hosted by Portrait of an Adoption. This series will feature guest posts by people with widely varying adoption experiences and perspectives.
By Carrie Goldman
Love. Such a simple word that encompasses so many possible meanings. I feel love for people in similar and different ways. Love for my husband. Love for my parents. Love for my sisters and my extended family. Love for my friends and their families. Love for my colleagues.
And, the most intense and complex of them all – love for my children. Complex because my children are the only ones who simultaneously crave, reject, embrace, need, challenge, inhale, absorb, return, share, fight, accept and question my love on a daily basis.
They light up with my love; it shines through in their smiles and their eyes. They fear the loss or withdrawal of my love, even when I show them a hundred ways to Sunday that my love is unconditional. They want to quantify my love, even though it can’t be measured. And no one has a more complicated relationship with love than a child who was adopted.
How do I convince my fifteen-year-old, who came to our family through adoption, that I love her as much as I love her younger sisters, who came to our family through our biology?
On a broader level, how does the world convince her she is loved and valued?
The same world that thrust a great injustice upon her by separating her from her first mother and her siblings, the world that passed her along to a doting foster mom to whom she attached and then was separated, the world that dropped her into our outstretched, naïve and eager arms, our greatest joy intricately tied to her greatest sadness, the world that views her story as a happily-ever-after and now expects her to be grateful, happy, well adjusted, and perfect at all times – how does she learn to trust the love of that world?
I love her so very much. And I need to convince her of my love every single day.
To match the giving of love with the exact need of any recipient is a moving calibration. There is no reliable unit of measurement for something so imprecise as human affection. We try. We offer up our love in words and actions, hoping to meet the ever-changing needs of our lovers, our children, our friends and our families – every relationship that matters takes some work.
Sometimes we find a period of time where all is in balance with a person we love. Oh, the bliss of those days or weeks or months where the love offered and the love received is in sync. When time spent together matches the intensity and desire for each other’s company, affections, attention. No one is chasing. No one is fleeing.
But then one person in the relationship inhales the sour breath of the beast that is insecurity, a beast whose presence twists the very air between two humans and makes greater the flaws that beckoned it in the door. Insecurity, also known as fear, feeds on the dark and scary parts of the mind, growing in strength and power as it distorts what is real and what is imagined.
Sometimes insecurity grows too big, until there is almost no space left for the relationship. But the antidote to such despair is hope, and hope fortunately needs less fuel to stay alive. These dynamics occur in any relationship, and the intensity can be magnified by a thousand when one of the partners is an adoptee.
I believe that the choice to be a parent is built on hope. The choice to be an adoptive parent is built on mountains of hope, oceans of hope, forests filled with the hope that a thousand seeds planted might one day yield a mighty tree.
How do I help my daughter choose hope day after day? How can I help her find happiness? How can I show her I love her enough, that her birth family loves her enough? How can I get her to love herself enough?
I ask myself these questions every day. I search for the answers in every place I can. I read books and blogs by adoptees, both those who are in despair and those who have found peace.
In moments of discomfort, I force myself to sit with the anger and rage and pain of the adult adoptees who write with derision and disgust about adoptive parents, because I can learn from their stories. With renewed hope and frank relief, I read and then reread the words of adult adoptees who are doing well, seeking to glean insights on how to help raise a thriving adoptee.
Despite proclaiming to my husband every September and October that it is too much work, I continue to host this thirty-day series every year, because I learn so much from the honest submissions of people who have every possible story to tell about their experience with adoption and foster care, and I know how much their stories need a platform to reach others.
Their stories are invaluable. I observe and listen and wonder what combination of internal resilience, good parenting, genetics, access to birth history, love, acceptance of grief, and endless empathy is needed to raise an adoptee to wholeness.
My oldest girl is my first daughter, and I am not her first mom. Therein lies the conflict. She did not choose this situation; it was foisted upon her and packaged as “you’re so lucky” by the world.
I’ve come to believe that the way through all of this is in allowing and validating ALL the feelings and viewpoints, even the ones that don’t fit the happily-ever-after narrative. It is an indisputable fact that my daughter lost something immeasurable and irreplaceable when she was adopted, and, yes, she also gained a family that brings her huge amounts of laughter, love, and stability.
Radical acceptance of things outside of my control has helped, as has the acknowledgment of unpleasant truths. I did not create the circumstances that led to my child being placed for adoption; those wheels were set in motion long before I ever knew of her existence. Yet, as an adoptive parent, I have come to see that I am also part of a larger system that contributes to her pain. Both of these realities co-exist.
She is allowed to feel all the feelings. She can be the adoptee who is pissed off at what happened to her and she can be the adoptee who is doing well. There’s room for both. She can be furious at me because I’m not her biological mom, and she can love me to the ends of the earth for being her “Mommio”, as she calls me.
Like our biological children, our oldest daughter does have many aspects of her life that are lucky. Lucky to have parents that adore each other, lucky to be able to travel and go to a good school and live in a comfortable home, lucky to have an enormous and doting extended family, lucky to live in a city where we can practice our Jewish faith and our neighbors support us.
And, unlike our biological children, she is terribly horribly unlucky in many ways. Unlucky that she isn’t growing up with her first family, unlucky that she has to wonder if we love her sisters more (we don’t), unlucky that she has to worry about whether we think she’s good enough (we do), and unlucky that she has to battle legitimate fears of abandonment in every relationship she enters.
What seems to be working best for our family is to just open our arms and our hearts and our ears and accept it all, every last conflicting bit of it. Our oldest daughter rages against the unfairness of being adopted. She hates being adopted. And she adores our family more than anything in the world.
As far as the proper calibration of love, we subscribe to the belief that we always have an endless supply of love to offer, and we simply add one more piece of love to the scales when necessary.
When she makes a mistake, we add a piece of love. When she has a success, we add a piece of love. When she questions if her share of the love is enough, we drop a few more pieces of love onto the plate. When she is hungry and no amount of food can fill the emptiness, we serve love with a side of love and love for dessert.
Last year, she programmed herself into our phone as “Most Loved Child” and we all laughed about it, even her sisters, because we all know that it is her way of poking fun at the beast of insecurity that lurks in adoption. I still smile every time she calls and my husband answers the phone with, “Hello, Most Loved Child.”
Those are the moments of balance, when the love is just right. It’s in the laughter, the raucous family dinners, the loud and crazy game nights, the watching of our favorite shows, the groaning at Dad’s jokes, the roughhousing with the little sisters, the Shabbat dinners and the family trips. The astonishing moment when everyone is okay, and the love offered matches the love needed to feel content.
Yes, that is when the calibration of love is just right, and in those moments, I can see the roots and shoots growing from the seeds planted in the garden of hope.
* * * *
Carrie Goldman is the host of Portrait of an Adoption. She is an award-winning author, speaker, and bullying prevention educator. Follow Carrie's blog Portrait of an Adoption on Facebook and TwitterTo continue receiving posts from Portrait of an Adoption, simply type your email address in the box and click the "create subscription" button.

]]>Five Siblings Foundhttp://www.chicagonow.com/portrait-of-an-adoption/2018/11/five-siblings-found/
http://www.chicagonow.com/portrait-of-an-adoption/2018/11/five-siblings-found/#commentsTue, 27 Nov 2018 07:23:02 -0600Carrie Goldmanhttp://www.chicagonow.com/portrait-of-an-adoption/?p=7457Welcome to 30 Adoption Portraits in 30 Days, hosted by Portrait of an Adoption. This series will feature guest posts by people with widely varying adoption experiences and perspectives.
By Elizabeth Blake
Here we are, decades after we were taken from our family, gathering the pieces of our lives and weaving a garment made of the fragments. Our garment, full of holes that let the light in.
Firstborn, I only knew that I was not adopted right after birth. I lived with my first mother for months after birth. She lived in a chaotic household with younger siblings and her mother. I can only imagine what life was like.
As a child, she would sit staring into space for hours in a quiet corner and not speak. A university medical center tried to figure out what was wrong, but it was long before some conditions were understood, there was no genetic testing and diagnoses were often guesses.
Her problems – present since since early childhood -- worsened as an adult. When she lived in group homes and took medication, she did better and functioned more typically. In her older years, she seemed to communicate better than she did all of her young life.
For some months as a baby, I was in foster care and with that, there were no photos and only very basic records. A family adopted me. They had a biological child who was eight years old. But after a "trial period" and with much dismay, they figured out they could not accept someone else's child.
My childhood, like most, was filled with both good and bad experiences. I did not have the love of my adoptive parents, but I had an adoptive grandmother who loved and cared for me often. Staying at her apartment was a welcome respite to life at home.
As an adult, after having a child, I understood the strength of a connection you feel to your own child and decided to search for my first family. I knew very little but had seen my birth name and my mother's name on adoption papers.
I approached the adoption agency named on the papers to help with my search, and they spoke to an aunt of mine, but she would not share information about her sister unless she knew why. It was a dead end.
Then I found a woman who did adoption searches, an angel. Within a day, she found and talked with my grandmother, shared the information with me and I soon met her and other family members. I needed a little time to process all of it and waited a little while before meeting my first mother. When I met my first mother, she did not speak much but did say, "You turned out beautiful."
I learned more about my family history. After me, Frank was next born. He was never adopted and lived in foster care until he aged out at eighteen.
One of his foster families kept him until he was about seven years old. He remembered that one morning he came downstairs for breakfast. A suitcase sat by the door along with his shoes. He asked his mother why. She told him he would be going to live at another home. At that time, he thought these people were his 'real' family. The parents had a son his age.
He described that day as the most devastating of his life to lose the family who loved him and treated him as their own. Later, he guessed that his maybe his frequent seizures made keeping him too difficult.
Amazingly, Frank and I found each other in 1981 when we both called the same search person within a month of each other, and she figured out we were siblings. We both had the same unusual last name and his had never been changed because he was in foster care but not adopted.
Later, our relationship as siblings was proven with our original birth certificates. We also went together to meet our first mother. After that meeting, Frank did not contact either of us for a year or so. When we reconnected later, he said it was too much to take in, and he needed to think about these new relationships.
When the time was right for him, he went to visit our first mother at the group home where she lived. He took her shopping and out to her favorite place to eat. He said, "She always wants something. I never had a mom who needed help." For many years, Frank came to celebrate Thanksgiving and Christmas with my husband and our daughter.
Frank was not my only sibling. My two younger sisters, J and T, lived with our first family for a year or two. Our mother had married, but problems persisted, now times two. When parenting was clearly failing, J and T went into foster care.
After a year or so, J and T were made wards of the state and then were available to be adopted. They were placed together and adopted when they were about three and four years old. I found them when they were about eighteen and nineteen years old.
Since they were still living with their adoptive parents, I was only able to briefly meet J, the older sibling. I heard she went to meet our first family. I lost contact with J and T again until just a few years ago.
T and I wrote back and forth. We had both moved away from the city we grew up in. She invited me to visit her. It was such a joy to fly out to stay at her home for three days. We talked until late at night, sharing stories and photos. It was a life-changing experience. It was so healing.
Still, there was one more sibling. Our youngest sister was born at our family's apartment. Like with all of us, my mother received no prenatal care during her pregnancy. My sister was placed for adoption soon after her birth. She lived in another state for some of her childhood and spent time in Europe when she was in high school.
She grew up knowing nothing of her biological history. In 1995, when her two-year-old child had a health problem, DSHS was willing to help her find biological family for medical reasons. It was such a shock to learn that there was another sibling from my first family.
I had thought there were four of us. But there were actually five; it was true. My youngest sister and Frank and I met together first, and then we went to see our first mother. Frank passed away suddenly in January 1996 at age 38 during a seizure. The rest of us lost contact with our youngest sister a couple years later, but she recently found us again.
This year we were invited to a Welcome Home Gathering for adopted or fostered adults who have Native American heritage. Three of us sisters planned to return to our home and attend the gathering. One was unable to go, and one had to cancel.
T and I attended the gathering and made friends with others who were adopted. It was an amazing three days of teachings from our culture, ceremonies and a pow wow with an honor dance for us. It was the most healing time we had ever experienced.
We had lost our connections and culture and have found our way back. We have each other. Sadly, my two middle sisters never met their brother Frank. It's so joyful to have found my family, made peace with the past, we have more family to love and now we can really grow together.
Elizabeth Blake is a pediatric nurse practitioner and artist. Coincidentally, her sister is a nurse becoming a nurse practitioner, and three of the siblings are artists. In 2012, Elizabeth’s book for children about belonging was published. It's titled Greenbean: True Blue Family. She also illustrated a book called Sleep Baby Sleep in English and Spanish published by Xist Publishing. Her website is: https://elizabethblake.us
* * * *
Carrie Goldman is the host of Portrait of an Adoption. She is an award-winning author, speaker, and bullying prevention educator. Follow Carrie's blog Portrait of an Adoption on Facebook and TwitterTo continue receiving posts from Portrait of an Adoption, simply type your email address in the box and click the "create subscription" button.

]]>Welcome to 30 Adoption Portraits in 30 Days, hosted by Portrait of an Adoption. This series will feature guest posts by people with widely varying adoption experiences and perspectives.
By Elizabeth Blake
Here we are, decades after we were taken from our family, gathering the pieces of our lives and weaving a garment made of the fragments. Our garment, full of holes that let the light in.
Firstborn, I only knew that I was not adopted right after birth. I lived with my first mother for months after birth. She lived in a chaotic household with younger siblings and her mother. I can only imagine what life was like.
As a child, she would sit staring into space for hours in a quiet corner and not speak. A university medical center tried to figure out what was wrong, but it was long before some conditions were understood, there was no genetic testing and diagnoses were often guesses.
Her problems – present since since early childhood -- worsened as an adult. When she lived in group homes and took medication, she did better and functioned more typically. In her older years, she seemed to communicate better than she did all of her young life.
For some months as a baby, I was in foster care and with that, there were no photos and only very basic records. A family adopted me. They had a biological child who was eight years old. But after a "trial period" and with much dismay, they figured out they could not accept someone else's child.
My childhood, like most, was filled with both good and bad experiences. I did not have the love of my adoptive parents, but I had an adoptive grandmother who loved and cared for me often. Staying at her apartment was a welcome respite to life at home.
As an adult, after having a child, I understood the strength of a connection you feel to your own child and decided to search for my first family. I knew very little but had seen my birth name and my mother's name on adoption papers.
I approached the adoption agency named on the papers to help with my search, and they spoke to an aunt of mine, but she would not share information about her sister unless she knew why. It was a dead end.
Then I found a woman who did adoption searches, an angel. Within a day, she found and talked with my grandmother, shared the information with me and I soon met her and other family members. I needed a little time to process all of it and waited a little while before meeting my first mother. When I met my first mother, she did not speak much but did say, "You turned out beautiful."
I learned more about my family history. After me, Frank was next born. He was never adopted and lived in foster care until he aged out at eighteen.
One of his foster families kept him until he was about seven years old. He remembered that one morning he came downstairs for breakfast. A suitcase sat by the door along with his shoes. He asked his mother why. She told him he would be going to live at another home. At that time, he thought these people were his 'real' family. The parents had a son his age.
He described that day as the most devastating of his life to lose the family who loved him and treated him as their own. Later, he guessed that his maybe his frequent seizures made keeping him too difficult.
Amazingly, Frank and I found each other in 1981 when we both called the same search person within a month of each other, and she figured out we were siblings. We both had the same unusual last name and his had never been changed because he was in foster care but not adopted.
Later, our relationship as siblings was proven with our original birth certificates. We also went together to meet our first mother. After that meeting, Frank did not contact either of us for a year or so. When we reconnected later, he said it was too much to take in, and he needed to think about these new relationships.
When the time was right for him, he went to visit our first mother at the group home where she lived. He took her shopping and out to her favorite place to eat. He said, "She always wants something. I never had a mom who needed help." For many years, Frank came to celebrate Thanksgiving and Christmas with my husband and our daughter.
Frank was not my only sibling. My two younger sisters, J and T, lived with our first family for a year or two. Our mother had married, but problems persisted, now times two. When parenting was clearly failing, J and T went into foster care.
After a year or so, J and T were made wards of the state and then were available to be adopted. They were placed together and adopted when they were about three and four years old. I found them when they were about eighteen and nineteen years old.
Since they were still living with their adoptive parents, I was only able to briefly meet J, the older sibling. I heard she went to meet our first family. I lost contact with J and T again until just a few years ago.
T and I wrote back and forth. We had both moved away from the city we grew up in. She invited me to visit her. It was such a joy to fly out to stay at her home for three days. We talked until late at night, sharing stories and photos. It was a life-changing experience. It was so healing.
Still, there was one more sibling. Our youngest sister was born at our family's apartment. Like with all of us, my mother received no prenatal care during her pregnancy. My sister was placed for adoption soon after her birth. She lived in another state for some of her childhood and spent time in Europe when she was in high school.
She grew up knowing nothing of her biological history. In 1995, when her two-year-old child had a health problem, DSHS was willing to help her find biological family for medical reasons. It was such a shock to learn that there was another sibling from my first family.
I had thought there were four of us. But there were actually five; it was true. My youngest sister and Frank and I met together first, and then we went to see our first mother. Frank passed away suddenly in January 1996 at age 38 during a seizure. The rest of us lost contact with our youngest sister a couple years later, but she recently found us again.
This year we were invited to a Welcome Home Gathering for adopted or fostered adults who have Native American heritage. Three of us sisters planned to return to our home and attend the gathering. One was unable to go, and one had to cancel.
T and I attended the gathering and made friends with others who were adopted. It was an amazing three days of teachings from our culture, ceremonies and a pow wow with an honor dance for us. It was the most healing time we had ever experienced.
We had lost our connections and culture and have found our way back. We have each other. Sadly, my two middle sisters never met their brother Frank. It's so joyful to have found my family, made peace with the past, we have more family to love and now we can really grow together.
Elizabeth Blake is a pediatric nurse practitioner and artist. Coincidentally, her sister is a nurse becoming a nurse practitioner, and three of the siblings are artists. In 2012, Elizabeth’s book for children about belonging was published. It's titled Greenbean: True Blue Family. She also illustrated a book called Sleep Baby Sleep in English and Spanish published by Xist Publishing. Her website is: https://elizabethblake.us
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Carrie Goldman is the host of Portrait of an Adoption. She is an award-winning author, speaker, and bullying prevention educator. Follow Carrie's blog Portrait of an Adoption on Facebook and TwitterTo continue receiving posts from Portrait of an Adoption, simply type your email address in the box and click the "create subscription" button.

]]>Does She Know?http://www.chicagonow.com/portrait-of-an-adoption/2018/11/does-she-know/
http://www.chicagonow.com/portrait-of-an-adoption/2018/11/does-she-know/#commentsMon, 26 Nov 2018 05:03:11 -0600Carrie Goldmanhttp://www.chicagonow.com/portrait-of-an-adoption/?p=7453Welcome to 30 Adoption Portraits in 30 Days, hosted by Portrait of an Adoption. This series will feature guest posts by people with widely varying adoption experiences and perspectives.
By Anne Sawan
The first night I spent with my daughter I looked into her eyes and I started to cry suddenly overwhelmed with the realization that someday this beautiful baby of mine was going to be faced with a lot of pain. That at some point she would realize what it really means to be adopted. That despite the loving books we read her and the beautiful words we use to explain it, the reality is there is a sorrow and loss in her life that no one can take away.
Several years later I was at a function with my family when an older woman came over and asked about my children. She knew one of my daughters was adopted and quietly whispered into my ear, “Does she know?” She wasn’t being rude, just curious. She was from a different generation and culture than me. A time and place where children weren’t told if they were adopted and parent were encouraged not to tell, not to talk about it.
Secrets.
I nodded and whispered back, “Yes, she does.” The older woman smiled and patted me on the shoulder, “It’s better that way, don’t you think?” Then she walked away.
Secrets…perhaps she had her own.
I sat there for a while after she left and looked at my young daughter, mulling over the question in my head, does she know?
Does she know? Yes, she knows she’s adopted. She will tell you, if it comes up, “I am adopted.” We have conversations about adoption, have read a few books that explain what adoption is and many nights as we lay together I tell her the story of how her dad and I flew far across the ocean, wrapped her up in a pink blanket and took her home to a big party of waiting siblings and excited relatives. But does she know? Does she truly know what it means, this word, adoption?
No. How could she know? She was young and busy with more important things like trying to figure out how to cross the monkey bars and ride a bike and count to one hundred. Her head full of birthday cake and colorful crayons and soft lullabies and that’s how it should be. She knows we love her. She knows her siblings love her. She knows we wished for her. She knows we flew high above the mountains and across the ocean to get her. She knows her family both far away and those close by helped us. She knows about the country she came from, what they eat, how they speak. She knows a word, adoption, but it’s all abstract to her. She doesn’t really know all of it. How could she?
She doesn’t know yet about the never-ending sorrow that must have filled a faraway woman’s soul as her belly began to grow and stretch, making room for the mysterious little arms and legs that were budding deep inside.
She doesn’t know about the rivers of joy and sadness that flowed together in the woman’s heart every time the child inside of her moved and danced, a tiny foot sending ripples of life across her tightly pulled skin.
She doesn’t know about the spirit of grief and loss that hovered like an unwelcome messenger in the sticky summer air, warning the woman that as the dull pangs of labor grew longer, her time with her secret was growing shorter.
She doesn’t know yet about the millions of tears that were shed and the hundred of kisses of joy and sorrow and thanks and love that were showered upon her before the woman finally wrapped her in a blanket and handed her to another, saying goodbye.
So, does she know the word, adoption? Yes, but does she truly know what it means?
No.
It’s a hard truth, a harsh reality to take in, that love and pain can be so connected. So entwined. So when will my daughter truly know what adoption means? When will she finally learn and really understand the whole truth?
Maybe, when it is her turn. When it is her turn to hold her own child, be it through the miracle of adoption or the magic of biology, then she will know. When it is her turn to gently kiss her child’s soft cheeks, gaze with awe into her child’s sleepy eyes and breathe in all of her child’s sweet wonder, then she will know. When it is her turn to wrap her child in a soft blanket and bring the child home to her family, then she will know. When her heart rises up and she cries a hundred tears of thanks and joy and sorrow and love then maybe she will know… finally, and truly know what this word, adoption, means.
Anne Cavanaugh Sawan is a mother, psychologist, and writer. She lives in New England with her husband, five children, two dogs, three cats, and several chickens. Her picture book, "What Can Your Grandmother Do? won the International Picture Book Contest held by Inclusive Works and Clavis Publishing in 2014 while some of her other writing has been featured on Adoptive Families, Grown and Flown, The Mid, Scary Mommy and Blunt Moms.
* * * *
Carrie Goldman is the host of Portrait of an Adoption. She is an award-winning author, speaker, and bullying prevention educator. Follow Carrie's blog Portrait of an Adoption on Facebook and TwitterTo continue receiving posts from Portrait of an Adoption, simply type your email address in the box and click the "create subscription" button.

]]>Welcome to 30 Adoption Portraits in 30 Days, hosted by Portrait of an Adoption. This series will feature guest posts by people with widely varying adoption experiences and perspectives.
By Anne Sawan
The first night I spent with my daughter I looked into her eyes and I started to cry suddenly overwhelmed with the realization that someday this beautiful baby of mine was going to be faced with a lot of pain. That at some point she would realize what it really means to be adopted. That despite the loving books we read her and the beautiful words we use to explain it, the reality is there is a sorrow and loss in her life that no one can take away.
Several years later I was at a function with my family when an older woman came over and asked about my children. She knew one of my daughters was adopted and quietly whispered into my ear, “Does she know?” She wasn’t being rude, just curious. She was from a different generation and culture than me. A time and place where children weren’t told if they were adopted and parent were encouraged not to tell, not to talk about it.
Secrets.
I nodded and whispered back, “Yes, she does.” The older woman smiled and patted me on the shoulder, “It’s better that way, don’t you think?” Then she walked away.
Secrets…perhaps she had her own.
I sat there for a while after she left and looked at my young daughter, mulling over the question in my head, does she know?
Does she know? Yes, she knows she’s adopted. She will tell you, if it comes up, “I am adopted.” We have conversations about adoption, have read a few books that explain what adoption is and many nights as we lay together I tell her the story of how her dad and I flew far across the ocean, wrapped her up in a pink blanket and took her home to a big party of waiting siblings and excited relatives. But does she know? Does she truly know what it means, this word, adoption?
No. How could she know? She was young and busy with more important things like trying to figure out how to cross the monkey bars and ride a bike and count to one hundred. Her head full of birthday cake and colorful crayons and soft lullabies and that’s how it should be. She knows we love her. She knows her siblings love her. She knows we wished for her. She knows we flew high above the mountains and across the ocean to get her. She knows her family both far away and those close by helped us. She knows about the country she came from, what they eat, how they speak. She knows a word, adoption, but it’s all abstract to her. She doesn’t really know all of it. How could she?
She doesn’t know yet about the never-ending sorrow that must have filled a faraway woman’s soul as her belly began to grow and stretch, making room for the mysterious little arms and legs that were budding deep inside.
She doesn’t know about the rivers of joy and sadness that flowed together in the woman’s heart every time the child inside of her moved and danced, a tiny foot sending ripples of life across her tightly pulled skin.
She doesn’t know about the spirit of grief and loss that hovered like an unwelcome messenger in the sticky summer air, warning the woman that as the dull pangs of labor grew longer, her time with her secret was growing shorter.
She doesn’t know yet about the millions of tears that were shed and the hundred of kisses of joy and sorrow and thanks and love that were showered upon her before the woman finally wrapped her in a blanket and handed her to another, saying goodbye.
So, does she know the word, adoption? Yes, but does she truly know what it means?
No.
It’s a hard truth, a harsh reality to take in, that love and pain can be so connected. So entwined. So when will my daughter truly know what adoption means? When will she finally learn and really understand the whole truth?
Maybe, when it is her turn. When it is her turn to hold her own child, be it through the miracle of adoption or the magic of biology, then she will know. When it is her turn to gently kiss her child’s soft cheeks, gaze with awe into her child’s sleepy eyes and breathe in all of her child’s sweet wonder, then she will know. When it is her turn to wrap her child in a soft blanket and bring the child home to her family, then she will know. When her heart rises up and she cries a hundred tears of thanks and joy and sorrow and love then maybe she will know… finally, and truly know what this word, adoption, means.
Anne Cavanaugh Sawan is a mother, psychologist, and writer. She lives in New England with her husband, five children, two dogs, three cats, and several chickens. Her picture book, "What Can Your Grandmother Do? won the International Picture Book Contest held by Inclusive Works and Clavis Publishing in 2014 while some of her other writing has been featured on Adoptive Families, Grown and Flown, The Mid, Scary Mommy and Blunt Moms.
* * * *
Carrie Goldman is the host of Portrait of an Adoption. She is an award-winning author, speaker, and bullying prevention educator. Follow Carrie's blog Portrait of an Adoption on Facebook and TwitterTo continue receiving posts from Portrait of an Adoption, simply type your email address in the box and click the "create subscription" button.

]]>Nearly Homehttp://www.chicagonow.com/portrait-of-an-adoption/2018/11/nearly-home/
http://www.chicagonow.com/portrait-of-an-adoption/2018/11/nearly-home/#commentsSun, 25 Nov 2018 08:39:10 -0600Carrie Goldmanhttp://www.chicagonow.com/portrait-of-an-adoption/?p=7448Welcome to 30 Adoption Portraits in 30 Days, hosted by Portrait of an Adoption. This series will feature guest posts by people with widely varying adoption experiences and perspectives.
By Savannah
I arrived at 2 weeks old in a baby blue onesie two sizes too big.
I was grey and malnourished.
I would be the smallest baby that my mother ever had.
Your definition of mother is different than mine.
To you mother is the one that gave birth to you.
But I do not associate with the person that birthed me.
I call her by her first name.
She was not made of maternal material.
Because a child’s life is worth more than a pack of cigarettes.
She left my brothers and sisters inside while she went out for a smoke break.
Her name was just a word that rolled off my tongue.
I never loved my birth mother.
I loved my sisters and brothers and my new father and mother.
I may have been birthed by her but she did not treat me the way a mother would.
The way a mother should.
My definition of mother is the one took me from the one who mistreated me.
Saved me from that type of abuse.
Engraved her love in my heart, erasing the name of the one who was supposed to be my mother.
“Nearly home”.
The place I first met my mother.
Not in a hospital.
But a home surrounded by woods with a trampoline in the yard and a dog that loved to lay beside you.
A home is where you are loved and taken care of.
My younger siblings do not live in a home.
Yes they have a roof over their heads and sometimes have food on their plates.
But they are left lonely when their mother finds a new object for her affection or addiction.
I have 13 siblings.
Thirteen.
Nine that I share blood with.
Nearly home.
The first mother I ever knew was someone I had no DNA match to.
The first family I ever knew I shared almost no DNA similarity with besides my sister.
I spell mother L-O-V-E.
They asked me to spell family one day in elementary school.
I spelled out A-D-O-P-T-I-O-N.
I had a very normal upbringing except for having to visit my younger siblings every month.
They lived with my birth mother.
We would sit in a white room with plastic tables and plastic toys.
Observed for our behavior, making sure we were stable.
When they should’ve been making sure to save my little sisters and brothers from the person they call mother.
Not the one who I would call mom.
She would not share that title.
Her sense of entitlement tied her down like a sail on ship with no direction.
Her moral compass is broken and her ship is sinking.
But the passengers on that ship did not ask for this.
Hostages on board being defined by their mother’s actions.
They are tied to that ship by the DNA that flows in their veins.
In my veins too.
She gave me height, hair color, and my constellation of freckles.
But my real mom gave me happiness, compassion, a moral compass that always seems to point me in the right direction, and a life with more love and family in it that I could have ever asked for.
Savannah is the teenage daughter of Petrecia Shales, who also wrote a piece for this series called Lucky, But Not Lucky Enough.
* * * *
Carrie Goldman is the host of Portrait of an Adoption. She is an award-winning author, speaker, and bullying prevention educator. Follow Carrie's blog Portrait of an Adoption on Facebook and TwitterTo continue receiving posts from Portrait of an Adoption, simply type your email address in the box and click the "create subscription" button.

]]>Welcome to 30 Adoption Portraits in 30 Days, hosted by Portrait of an Adoption. This series will feature guest posts by people with widely varying adoption experiences and perspectives.
By Savannah
I arrived at 2 weeks old in a baby blue onesie two sizes too big.
I was grey and malnourished.
I would be the smallest baby that my mother ever had.
Your definition of mother is different than mine.
To you mother is the one that gave birth to you.
But I do not associate with the person that birthed me.
I call her by her first name.
She was not made of maternal material.
Because a child’s life is worth more than a pack of cigarettes.
She left my brothers and sisters inside while she went out for a smoke break.
Her name was just a word that rolled off my tongue.
I never loved my birth mother.
I loved my sisters and brothers and my new father and mother.
I may have been birthed by her but she did not treat me the way a mother would.
The way a mother should.
My definition of mother is the one took me from the one who mistreated me.
Saved me from that type of abuse.
Engraved her love in my heart, erasing the name of the one who was supposed to be my mother.
“Nearly home”.
The place I first met my mother.
Not in a hospital.
But a home surrounded by woods with a trampoline in the yard and a dog that loved to lay beside you.
A home is where you are loved and taken care of.
My younger siblings do not live in a home.
Yes they have a roof over their heads and sometimes have food on their plates.
But they are left lonely when their mother finds a new object for her affection or addiction.
I have 13 siblings.
Thirteen.
Nine that I share blood with.
Nearly home.
The first mother I ever knew was someone I had no DNA match to.
The first family I ever knew I shared almost no DNA similarity with besides my sister.
I spell mother L-O-V-E.
They asked me to spell family one day in elementary school.
I spelled out A-D-O-P-T-I-O-N.
I had a very normal upbringing except for having to visit my younger siblings every month.
They lived with my birth mother.
We would sit in a white room with plastic tables and plastic toys.
Observed for our behavior, making sure we were stable.
When they should’ve been making sure to save my little sisters and brothers from the person they call mother.
Not the one who I would call mom.
She would not share that title.
Her sense of entitlement tied her down like a sail on ship with no direction.
Her moral compass is broken and her ship is sinking.
But the passengers on that ship did not ask for this.
Hostages on board being defined by their mother’s actions.
They are tied to that ship by the DNA that flows in their veins.
In my veins too.
She gave me height, hair color, and my constellation of freckles.
But my real mom gave me happiness, compassion, a moral compass that always seems to point me in the right direction, and a life with more love and family in it that I could have ever asked for.
Savannah is the teenage daughter of Petrecia Shales, who also wrote a piece for this series called Lucky, But Not Lucky Enough.
* * * *
Carrie Goldman is the host of Portrait of an Adoption. She is an award-winning author, speaker, and bullying prevention educator. Follow Carrie's blog Portrait of an Adoption on Facebook and TwitterTo continue receiving posts from Portrait of an Adoption, simply type your email address in the box and click the "create subscription" button.

]]>A Decade Later, We Have Four Kids and Four Open Adoptionshttp://www.chicagonow.com/portrait-of-an-adoption/2018/11/a-decade-later-we-have-four-kids-and-four-open-adoptions/
http://www.chicagonow.com/portrait-of-an-adoption/2018/11/a-decade-later-we-have-four-kids-and-four-open-adoptions/#commentsSat, 24 Nov 2018 05:12:29 -0600Carrie Goldmanhttp://www.chicagonow.com/portrait-of-an-adoption/?p=7444Welcome to 30 Adoption Portraits in 30 Days, hosted by Portrait of an Adoption. This series will feature guest posts by people with widely varying adoption experiences and perspectives.
By Rachel GarlinghouseDo I take a gift? Do we provide a snack for all the kids? What time is best? What should I wear? What should the child wear? We must avoid nap time. And mealtime. What will the weather be at the park? What if the baby is fussy and won’t let birth mom hold her? Was this a terrible idea? I’m so nervous.
There are so many questions and concerns that cross our minds in the earliest days of open adoption. We, as the adoptive parents, want to put our “best foot forward.” We want to be perceived as qualified and capable, in addition to loving, confident, and thankful. We spend many months prior to and after the adoption trying to prove to everyone around us that we are good enough to be our child’s parents.
And of course, those opinions that matter most to us belong to our children’s birth parents. After all, they were the ones who chose us to raise the child.
The open adoption relationship is incredibly unique. There are no two alike. There’s no guidebook. No rules. No map. The relationship feels fragile and yet, so deeply rooted (and growing).
In essence, it’s like no other relationship.
Twelve years ago, we said yes to open adoption. Originally, we had swiftly marked “semi open” on our adoption paperwork. It felt safe, like a compromise. We would provide updates via the adoption agency to our child’s birth parents, but we wouldn’t be faced with uncomfortable visits, phone calls, or texting. We’d live our life, and they would live theirs.
Looking back, I know we made that choice for two reasons. The first, if I’m honest, was selfishness. We wanted our child to be OUR child. We didn’t want to “share.” The second reason was ignorance. We simply didn’t have a good understanding of why open adoption was important and how we could make it work.
But our commitment to a semi open adoption was abruptly changed the day we were on our way to court to gain custody of our first child. The social worker called to say our daughter’s birth mother did want to meet us after all, and she’d be waiting for us at the court house.
It felt a lot like Hide and Go Seek when children chant, “Ready or not! Here I come!”
Of course, we couldn’t and wouldn’t say no to meeting our daughter’s birth mother. And upon meeting her and putting our arms around her, we knew the idea of a semi-open adoption was just that: an idea.
A decade later, we have four kids and four open adoptions. The road has been anything but easy. In fact, openness in an adoption is a lot like adoption itself: complicated, bittersweet, ever-changing.
We keep our children’s adoption and relationship details private out of respect for all involved. But I will say that experience truly is the best teacher, and open adoption requires a lot more from our family than I ever expected, including flexibility, patience, grace, forgiveness, empathy, trust, and commitment.
The thing is, any worthy relationship is going to require work. A lot of work. And as a parent-by-adoption, it’s my privilege and honor to put forth that effort in order for my children to have a healthy relationship with the people who birthed them and love them.
I’ve also had to work through my own feelings of being okay with “sharing” my children. They aren’t just my children, either. They are OUR children: belonging to both the birth families and to us. And that is okay. I have made peace with being my kids’ second mom. Not second place, but second in terms of when the children came to us.
My children have the blessing of communication, history, and future with their biological parents, affirmed and encouraged by us. I won’t say it’s been an easy journey, because it has not. But I will say, it’s absolutely worth it.
Rachel Garlinghouse is the author of six books, including The Hopeful Mom’s Guide to Adoption: The Wit and Wisdom You Need for the Journey. Rachel is a mother of four, Christian, cheese-fry and dance-party fan, Black Lives Matter advocate, type 1 diabetic, and breast cancer survivor. Learn more about her family’s adventures and connect at her blog White Sugar Brown Sugar.
* * * *
Carrie Goldman is the host of Portrait of an Adoption. She is an award-winning author, speaker, and bullying prevention educator. Follow Carrie's blog Portrait of an Adoption on Facebook and TwitterTo continue receiving posts from Portrait of an Adoption, simply type your email address in the box and click the "create subscription" button.

]]>Welcome to 30 Adoption Portraits in 30 Days, hosted by Portrait of an Adoption. This series will feature guest posts by people with widely varying adoption experiences and perspectives.
By Rachel GarlinghouseDo I take a gift? Do we provide a snack for all the kids? What time is best? What should I wear? What should the child wear? We must avoid nap time. And mealtime. What will the weather be at the park? What if the baby is fussy and won’t let birth mom hold her? Was this a terrible idea? I’m so nervous.
There are so many questions and concerns that cross our minds in the earliest days of open adoption. We, as the adoptive parents, want to put our “best foot forward.” We want to be perceived as qualified and capable, in addition to loving, confident, and thankful. We spend many months prior to and after the adoption trying to prove to everyone around us that we are good enough to be our child’s parents.
And of course, those opinions that matter most to us belong to our children’s birth parents. After all, they were the ones who chose us to raise the child.
The open adoption relationship is incredibly unique. There are no two alike. There’s no guidebook. No rules. No map. The relationship feels fragile and yet, so deeply rooted (and growing).
In essence, it’s like no other relationship.
Twelve years ago, we said yes to open adoption. Originally, we had swiftly marked “semi open” on our adoption paperwork. It felt safe, like a compromise. We would provide updates via the adoption agency to our child’s birth parents, but we wouldn’t be faced with uncomfortable visits, phone calls, or texting. We’d live our life, and they would live theirs.
Looking back, I know we made that choice for two reasons. The first, if I’m honest, was selfishness. We wanted our child to be OUR child. We didn’t want to “share.” The second reason was ignorance. We simply didn’t have a good understanding of why open adoption was important and how we could make it work.
But our commitment to a semi open adoption was abruptly changed the day we were on our way to court to gain custody of our first child. The social worker called to say our daughter’s birth mother did want to meet us after all, and she’d be waiting for us at the court house.
It felt a lot like Hide and Go Seek when children chant, “Ready or not! Here I come!”
Of course, we couldn’t and wouldn’t say no to meeting our daughter’s birth mother. And upon meeting her and putting our arms around her, we knew the idea of a semi-open adoption was just that: an idea.
A decade later, we have four kids and four open adoptions. The road has been anything but easy. In fact, openness in an adoption is a lot like adoption itself: complicated, bittersweet, ever-changing.
We keep our children’s adoption and relationship details private out of respect for all involved. But I will say that experience truly is the best teacher, and open adoption requires a lot more from our family than I ever expected, including flexibility, patience, grace, forgiveness, empathy, trust, and commitment.
The thing is, any worthy relationship is going to require work. A lot of work. And as a parent-by-adoption, it’s my privilege and honor to put forth that effort in order for my children to have a healthy relationship with the people who birthed them and love them.
I’ve also had to work through my own feelings of being okay with “sharing” my children. They aren’t just my children, either. They are OUR children: belonging to both the birth families and to us. And that is okay. I have made peace with being my kids’ second mom. Not second place, but second in terms of when the children came to us.
My children have the blessing of communication, history, and future with their biological parents, affirmed and encouraged by us. I won’t say it’s been an easy journey, because it has not. But I will say, it’s absolutely worth it.
Rachel Garlinghouse is the author of six books, including The Hopeful Mom’s Guide to Adoption: The Wit and Wisdom You Need for the Journey. Rachel is a mother of four, Christian, cheese-fry and dance-party fan, Black Lives Matter advocate, type 1 diabetic, and breast cancer survivor. Learn more about her family’s adventures and connect at her blog White Sugar Brown Sugar.
* * * *
Carrie Goldman is the host of Portrait of an Adoption. She is an award-winning author, speaker, and bullying prevention educator. Follow Carrie's blog Portrait of an Adoption on Facebook and TwitterTo continue receiving posts from Portrait of an Adoption, simply type your email address in the box and click the "create subscription" button.

]]>All the Things I’ve Been Through Are Shaping Me To Be A Stronger Manhttp://www.chicagonow.com/portrait-of-an-adoption/2018/11/all-the-things-ive-been-through-are-shaping-me-to-be-a-stronger-man/
http://www.chicagonow.com/portrait-of-an-adoption/2018/11/all-the-things-ive-been-through-are-shaping-me-to-be-a-stronger-man/#commentsFri, 23 Nov 2018 07:42:04 -0600Carrie Goldmanhttp://www.chicagonow.com/portrait-of-an-adoption/?p=7436Welcome to 30 Adoption Portraits in 30 Days, hosted by Portrait of an Adoption. This series will feature guest posts by people with widely varying adoption experiences and perspectives. By Rayshawn Milton
My name is Rayshawn Milton and I was adopted at three days old to a very versatile family who I know love me and I love them, but for some reason, I still feel all alone. I’ve met my biological mom a couple times while I was younger. We never discussed the reason she didn’t want to raise me, which was confusing.
I’m becoming a very brave person and this Adoption Awareness Month I want to share my story with everyone so all my friends and family could honestly see the real me and how I feel inside. A lot of my close friends don’t know that I’m adopted, so I feel like this would be a great way for everybody to hear my story!
I don’t know who my biological father is and I definitely would love to know who he is but I feel like God blessed me with an amazing adopted dad who shows me nothing but father love and I’m really grateful for him.
My adopted mom is a very beautiful lady who raised me until she just wasn’t able to anymore, due to her having a lot of problems. Being human, we all have our own problems and it’s harder for some people to deal with their issues.
I’m nineteen years old and my adopted mom and I have been through so much. As far as I can remember, we’ve been moving from house to house. I’ve never experienced having my own bed and room up until now. Growing up, my mom would have to hustle for us to have food to eat; she would have to beg people to let us stay in their house for a few days.
It used to be hurtful and confusing to encounter this instability. Because I was so young, I felt like I was incapable of helping and I hated for us to go through those hard times. When I reached eighth grade, I lived with my dad and stepmom because my mom was incapable of still raising me.
My dad got into an incident and had to serve time in the penitentiary, and my mom left me to live there with my dad’s other baby mother. I was distraught, although I do love my father’s other baby mother for everything she’s done for me, but I really just wanted to be with my own mom.
At that point, I felt like my mom just didn’t love me anymore. I felt alone and I used to cry and pray every night and text her and let her know about my uncomfortable living situation, and she didn’t really show concern.
After I completed eighth grade, my living situation got too bad for me to handle, so I called my mom’s sister and asked her if she can please let me live with her and she came to rescue me.
I lived with my aunt from my sophomore year of high school up until I graduated. If it wasn’t for my aunt, I would probably would be homeless living on the streets. I love my aunt to the core. She definitely came into my life and showed me mother love and I thank God for her every day.
All the things I’ve been through are shaping me to become a stronger man. I know there are so many kids and adults out there who’ve been adopted, and I still feel alone, just like I feel that’s why I want to spread awareness about adoption and let people know that we adoptees need authentic love too, just like all the other human beings in the world.
The pic with my white blazer on is my adopted mom and the one with the purple cap and gown is her sister, my aunt. I would like to say that I love both my adopted and biological family and I believe some things just happen for a reason but you got to stay strong, optimistic and put your faith in God. I truly appreciate everyone in my life that has helped me stay grounded from the bottom of my heart.
What inspired me to speak out during adoption awareness month is I don’t really hear about it much, and I’ve been affected by it tremendously. Being adopted and feeling abandoned twice by two people who I thought would love me really taught me how to just love myself more. I’ve been really shy and embarrassed to talk about my life but I feel like I have a purpose and that is to help inspire people who going through the same thing or just going through things, period.
I know there are so many children and people out there who’s been damaged by adoption. I’m not saying adoption is a bad thing, but there are different stories for everyone. I’ve read some beautiful stories. Another reason to speak out is that my adopted family doesn’t seem to see that I’m hurt to the core. I’ve watched all my adopted cousins with their real relatives and I use to just pray I could see my biological brother and sisters.
I’ve been through a lot and I think I found my purpose really early in life, so I’m going to work until I have fulfilled my destiny. I pretty much have a strong relationship with everyone from my adopted family but not my biological family. Thank you again for reading my story. I really appreciate it and I do hope my story will inspire someone!!! This means a lot to me.
Rayshawn Milton is nineteen years old. He is working full time and will begin classes at Truman College in the spring of 2019. His main hobby/interest is music. He is an aspiring singer-songwriter and he is using his gift to share his story. He hopes it inspires the world.
* * * *
Carrie Goldman is the host of Portrait of an Adoption. She is an award-winning author, speaker, and bullying prevention educator. Follow Carrie's blog Portrait of an Adoption on Facebook and TwitterTo continue receiving posts from Portrait of an Adoption, simply type your email address in the box and click the "create subscription" button.

]]>Welcome to 30 Adoption Portraits in 30 Days, hosted by Portrait of an Adoption. This series will feature guest posts by people with widely varying adoption experiences and perspectives. By Rayshawn Milton
My name is Rayshawn Milton and I was adopted at three days old to a very versatile family who I know love me and I love them, but for some reason, I still feel all alone. I’ve met my biological mom a couple times while I was younger. We never discussed the reason she didn’t want to raise me, which was confusing.
I’m becoming a very brave person and this Adoption Awareness Month I want to share my story with everyone so all my friends and family could honestly see the real me and how I feel inside. A lot of my close friends don’t know that I’m adopted, so I feel like this would be a great way for everybody to hear my story!
I don’t know who my biological father is and I definitely would love to know who he is but I feel like God blessed me with an amazing adopted dad who shows me nothing but father love and I’m really grateful for him.
My adopted mom is a very beautiful lady who raised me until she just wasn’t able to anymore, due to her having a lot of problems. Being human, we all have our own problems and it’s harder for some people to deal with their issues.
I’m nineteen years old and my adopted mom and I have been through so much. As far as I can remember, we’ve been moving from house to house. I’ve never experienced having my own bed and room up until now. Growing up, my mom would have to hustle for us to have food to eat; she would have to beg people to let us stay in their house for a few days.
It used to be hurtful and confusing to encounter this instability. Because I was so young, I felt like I was incapable of helping and I hated for us to go through those hard times. When I reached eighth grade, I lived with my dad and stepmom because my mom was incapable of still raising me.
My dad got into an incident and had to serve time in the penitentiary, and my mom left me to live there with my dad’s other baby mother. I was distraught, although I do love my father’s other baby mother for everything she’s done for me, but I really just wanted to be with my own mom.
At that point, I felt like my mom just didn’t love me anymore. I felt alone and I used to cry and pray every night and text her and let her know about my uncomfortable living situation, and she didn’t really show concern.
After I completed eighth grade, my living situation got too bad for me to handle, so I called my mom’s sister and asked her if she can please let me live with her and she came to rescue me.
I lived with my aunt from my sophomore year of high school up until I graduated. If it wasn’t for my aunt, I would probably would be homeless living on the streets. I love my aunt to the core. She definitely came into my life and showed me mother love and I thank God for her every day.
All the things I’ve been through are shaping me to become a stronger man. I know there are so many kids and adults out there who’ve been adopted, and I still feel alone, just like I feel that’s why I want to spread awareness about adoption and let people know that we adoptees need authentic love too, just like all the other human beings in the world.
The pic with my white blazer on is my adopted mom and the one with the purple cap and gown is her sister, my aunt. I would like to say that I love both my adopted and biological family and I believe some things just happen for a reason but you got to stay strong, optimistic and put your faith in God. I truly appreciate everyone in my life that has helped me stay grounded from the bottom of my heart.
What inspired me to speak out during adoption awareness month is I don’t really hear about it much, and I’ve been affected by it tremendously. Being adopted and feeling abandoned twice by two people who I thought would love me really taught me how to just love myself more. I’ve been really shy and embarrassed to talk about my life but I feel like I have a purpose and that is to help inspire people who going through the same thing or just going through things, period.
I know there are so many children and people out there who’s been damaged by adoption. I’m not saying adoption is a bad thing, but there are different stories for everyone. I’ve read some beautiful stories. Another reason to speak out is that my adopted family doesn’t seem to see that I’m hurt to the core. I’ve watched all my adopted cousins with their real relatives and I use to just pray I could see my biological brother and sisters.
I’ve been through a lot and I think I found my purpose really early in life, so I’m going to work until I have fulfilled my destiny. I pretty much have a strong relationship with everyone from my adopted family but not my biological family. Thank you again for reading my story. I really appreciate it and I do hope my story will inspire someone!!! This means a lot to me.
Rayshawn Milton is nineteen years old. He is working full time and will begin classes at Truman College in the spring of 2019. His main hobby/interest is music. He is an aspiring singer-songwriter and he is using his gift to share his story. He hopes it inspires the world.
* * * *
Carrie Goldman is the host of Portrait of an Adoption. She is an award-winning author, speaker, and bullying prevention educator. Follow Carrie's blog Portrait of an Adoption on Facebook and TwitterTo continue receiving posts from Portrait of an Adoption, simply type your email address in the box and click the "create subscription" button.

]]>My Mom and I Have Been Close Our Whole Liveshttp://www.chicagonow.com/portrait-of-an-adoption/2018/11/my-mom-and-i-have-been-close-our-whole-lives/
http://www.chicagonow.com/portrait-of-an-adoption/2018/11/my-mom-and-i-have-been-close-our-whole-lives/#commentsThu, 22 Nov 2018 05:49:00 -0600Carrie Goldmanhttp://www.chicagonow.com/portrait-of-an-adoption/?p=7411Welcome to 30 Adoption Portraits in 30 Days, hosted by Portrait of an Adoption. This series will feature guest posts by people with widely varying adoption experiences and perspectives.
By Michelle Adams
My name is Michelle and I was adopted as an infant. My biological mother, Nancy, was a freshman in college in 1971 when she had me. I was adopted through a priest that was a friend of my family that somehow knew of Nancy, I’m not clear on how.
My mom and dad, Lenore and Edward, were told there was a baby girl coming. Two days later, I was brought to them. I have always known I was adopted; it was never kept from me. I have a brother that was also adopted but from a different biological family and he has known he was adopted as well.
An uncle of mine helped to arrange my adoption. That particular uncle and my aunt were my godparents, their daughter has been my best friend my entire life. It could not have been a better placement. I am very happy with my family. My mom and I are amazingly close, we travel a lot together, we get along really well and we genuinely like each other.
About eight years ago, the uncle who helped with my adoption was in the final stages of his life, and I just felt it was time to look deeper into who my biological parents were. Shortly before my uncle passed, I had a moment with him privately when I thanked him for helping me find my perfect family.
As a child and a teen, I had never asked a lot of questions about my biological mother for a few reasons. I never wanted to hurt my parents’ feelings by asking. I didn’t want them to feel like I wasn’t happy or grateful to them for adopting me. I was partially scared to hear any unpleasant truths about my biological parents; I would rather have a fairytale dancing in my head.
So, I began the search with very limited knowledge. I quickly located the best possible match for my biological mother -- a woman named Nancy -- and I sent her a letter. I wanted nothing other than medical information. It wasn’t long before Nancy emailed me. She had gotten the letter and was completely shocked I had found her.
Nancy spent a short period of time locating my biological father, Mike, and she gave me his contact information. I was thrilled that Nancy had gotten in touch with Mike and will always be grateful for that. Aside from that, I resent Nancy. She has never told her husband or her son about me. She told me she never wanted me to contact her again. I feel that she is living a lie.
I also understand that is her choice and her issue, but in a very judgmental way, I feel her marriage has a huge underlying issue if she hasn't told him she had a baby forty-seven years ago. I can get carried away with these feelings and then I stop to think, it's really her loss.
I'm a good person. I live a good life, I was raised to be a decent human being, I'm active in dog rescue so I'm doing some good in the world. I have an amazing support system in my life and it's just sad that she doesn't want to be a part of it. Her loss.
Mike, however, couldn’t wait to get to know me. He never even knew Nancy was pregnant and clearly received the shock of a lifetime when, forty-two years later, he was told he had a daughter. We created a quick bond through emails and Facebook and I also became friends with his wife Patty. I loved hearing from Mike.
I was nervous to tell my mom and dad that I had found Nancy and Mike. Even in my forties with the wonderful relationship I've always had with them, I never wanted them to feel that they weren't enough. Searching for Nancy and Mike was just about finding the final pieces to my puzzle of who I am.
My parents both took the news better than I ever expected. To show exactly how similar my mom and I are, the first thing she said was, "What do they look like?" That is TOTALLY me. I wanted to know what they looked like, who I looked like. To answer that, I'm a complete combination of both of them.
When I told my dad, he just smiled and said that it was wonderful that I found them and then he wanted to know about them. It could not have gone any better than it did. It was a huge weight off my shoulders.
Mike passed away four years ago from colon cancer that went undiagnosed for too long. Mike and I sadly never met face to face, but we liked getting to know each other in the short time we had. I regret never meeting in person, but a year later, when my dad was dying, I learned to never live with regrets again.
My father passed away three years ago. Between my dad and Mike, both of these men were so special to me, whether I had them for forty-four years or just a couple years, they were amazing, sweet and wonderful to me.
When my father was dying, I did whatever my heart told me to do and I don't have a single regret from that time. So, there was a lesson learned in that and I've been able to share that with two very good friends who have lost parents--live with no regrets, do whatever it is you need to with that person while they are around.
My parents had lived in their home for 50 years. I wanted my mom to be in a retirement community as she is very active and very social. We spent a year going through everything in her house and getting her ready to sell, downsize and move. It was a long, hard year going through a lot of memories and doing a lot of work, but she has been settled into her new lifestyle for over a year and both of us could not be happier. She is so busy that most times she can't even talk to me; she is off to another event.
My mom and I have been close our whole lives. We have traveled a lot together. We love getting away for a few days. Most recently, we followed our love for Chihuly and headed to Seattle to see his exhibit there. Neither of us had been to Seattle before and wanted to make the most of it.
As a side note, my mom has been on oxygen for the last number of years, so traveling requires a little coordination. We planned this trip to each see a few things we were interested in and still have a little down time to recover. We both wanted to see his exhibit so that was step one of the trip.
That same day, we headed up the needle where we enjoyed a lovely glass of wine, potato chips and an amazing view. It usually doesn't take too much to make us happy. I am actively involved in dog rescue and have a lot of people I know on Facebook through rescue that I've never met in person.
When I posted I was heading to Seattle, one of the other volunteers, Cindy, begged me to come visit her and her rescue puppy that I had actually gotten from a dog auction.
Mom and I headed out for what we thought would be a short visit with Cindy and then to explore a little of Mt. Rainier. After chatting for a little bit, Cindy offered to be our tour guide. We spent over eight hours going up and back down the mountain with this amazing person that was born and raised in the area and that gave us the most specialized tour we could have ever imaging.
This day - just like everything - fell into place. And that is usually how we travel, my mom and I; we just go with the flow and everything ends up being perfect.
Even though Mike has passed away, I remain close to his wife, Patty. She has a daughter named Trish that is my age, who makes beautiful custom jewelry. I am Facebook friends with both Patty and Trish, as Mike was always open and honest with them and his son about me from the get-go.
About two years ago, Trish was in a jewelry show that was maybe an hour and a half from me, so I asked my girlfriend if she would go with me to surprise Patty and meet her in person for the first time.
I was a nervous wreck when we got to the parking lot. I walked in and Patty was in the back. I went right up to her and she knew exactly who I was. We hugged for a long time and then started talking like we've always known each other. It was wonderful. We decided we needed to get together again and since Trish was busy with the show, she didn't get to talk with us much, and we needed more one-on-one time.
About a year ago, Patty and I decided to meet up and Trish was going to come but fell ill. I had asked my mom to join us. We met at this cute little place about an hour from me. The three of us talked and laughed again like we've all known each other our entire lives.
Patty brought me a picture of Mike from when he was younger. She was cleaning out things from their house and thought I would like it. I carry it with me in my wallet every day. It was emotional, it was sweet and it was comfortable.
Mom and I got back in the car to leave and I'll never forget her saying to me, "Thank you for including me in this part of your life." Brings me to tears, the sweetness behind that. I guess as scared as I ever was of telling her that I was searching for these people, she was just as scared of maybe being left behind.
For Christmas last year, I bought one of Trish's custom pieces for my mom. She wears it all the time and constantly gets compliments. We are all now connected in some way. Mom and I both look forward to seeing these ladies in mid-September. We are family, and I am so happy to have all of them in my life.
* * * *
Carrie Goldman is the host of Portrait of an Adoption. She is an award-winning author, speaker, and bullying prevention educator. Follow Carrie's blog Portrait of an Adoption on Facebook and TwitterTo continue receiving posts from Portrait of an Adoption, simply type your email address in the box and click the "create subscription" button.

]]>Welcome to 30 Adoption Portraits in 30 Days, hosted by Portrait of an Adoption. This series will feature guest posts by people with widely varying adoption experiences and perspectives.
By Michelle Adams
My name is Michelle and I was adopted as an infant. My biological mother, Nancy, was a freshman in college in 1971 when she had me. I was adopted through a priest that was a friend of my family that somehow knew of Nancy, I’m not clear on how.
My mom and dad, Lenore and Edward, were told there was a baby girl coming. Two days later, I was brought to them. I have always known I was adopted; it was never kept from me. I have a brother that was also adopted but from a different biological family and he has known he was adopted as well.
An uncle of mine helped to arrange my adoption. That particular uncle and my aunt were my godparents, their daughter has been my best friend my entire life. It could not have been a better placement. I am very happy with my family. My mom and I are amazingly close, we travel a lot together, we get along really well and we genuinely like each other.
About eight years ago, the uncle who helped with my adoption was in the final stages of his life, and I just felt it was time to look deeper into who my biological parents were. Shortly before my uncle passed, I had a moment with him privately when I thanked him for helping me find my perfect family.
As a child and a teen, I had never asked a lot of questions about my biological mother for a few reasons. I never wanted to hurt my parents’ feelings by asking. I didn’t want them to feel like I wasn’t happy or grateful to them for adopting me. I was partially scared to hear any unpleasant truths about my biological parents; I would rather have a fairytale dancing in my head.
So, I began the search with very limited knowledge. I quickly located the best possible match for my biological mother -- a woman named Nancy -- and I sent her a letter. I wanted nothing other than medical information. It wasn’t long before Nancy emailed me. She had gotten the letter and was completely shocked I had found her.
Nancy spent a short period of time locating my biological father, Mike, and she gave me his contact information. I was thrilled that Nancy had gotten in touch with Mike and will always be grateful for that. Aside from that, I resent Nancy. She has never told her husband or her son about me. She told me she never wanted me to contact her again. I feel that she is living a lie.
I also understand that is her choice and her issue, but in a very judgmental way, I feel her marriage has a huge underlying issue if she hasn't told him she had a baby forty-seven years ago. I can get carried away with these feelings and then I stop to think, it's really her loss.
I'm a good person. I live a good life, I was raised to be a decent human being, I'm active in dog rescue so I'm doing some good in the world. I have an amazing support system in my life and it's just sad that she doesn't want to be a part of it. Her loss.
Mike, however, couldn’t wait to get to know me. He never even knew Nancy was pregnant and clearly received the shock of a lifetime when, forty-two years later, he was told he had a daughter. We created a quick bond through emails and Facebook and I also became friends with his wife Patty. I loved hearing from Mike.
I was nervous to tell my mom and dad that I had found Nancy and Mike. Even in my forties with the wonderful relationship I've always had with them, I never wanted them to feel that they weren't enough. Searching for Nancy and Mike was just about finding the final pieces to my puzzle of who I am.
My parents both took the news better than I ever expected. To show exactly how similar my mom and I are, the first thing she said was, "What do they look like?" That is TOTALLY me. I wanted to know what they looked like, who I looked like. To answer that, I'm a complete combination of both of them.
When I told my dad, he just smiled and said that it was wonderful that I found them and then he wanted to know about them. It could not have gone any better than it did. It was a huge weight off my shoulders.
Mike passed away four years ago from colon cancer that went undiagnosed for too long. Mike and I sadly never met face to face, but we liked getting to know each other in the short time we had. I regret never meeting in person, but a year later, when my dad was dying, I learned to never live with regrets again.
My father passed away three years ago. Between my dad and Mike, both of these men were so special to me, whether I had them for forty-four years or just a couple years, they were amazing, sweet and wonderful to me.
When my father was dying, I did whatever my heart told me to do and I don't have a single regret from that time. So, there was a lesson learned in that and I've been able to share that with two very good friends who have lost parents--live with no regrets, do whatever it is you need to with that person while they are around.
My parents had lived in their home for 50 years. I wanted my mom to be in a retirement community as she is very active and very social. We spent a year going through everything in her house and getting her ready to sell, downsize and move. It was a long, hard year going through a lot of memories and doing a lot of work, but she has been settled into her new lifestyle for over a year and both of us could not be happier. She is so busy that most times she can't even talk to me; she is off to another event.
My mom and I have been close our whole lives. We have traveled a lot together. We love getting away for a few days. Most recently, we followed our love for Chihuly and headed to Seattle to see his exhibit there. Neither of us had been to Seattle before and wanted to make the most of it.
As a side note, my mom has been on oxygen for the last number of years, so traveling requires a little coordination. We planned this trip to each see a few things we were interested in and still have a little down time to recover. We both wanted to see his exhibit so that was step one of the trip.
That same day, we headed up the needle where we enjoyed a lovely glass of wine, potato chips and an amazing view. It usually doesn't take too much to make us happy. I am actively involved in dog rescue and have a lot of people I know on Facebook through rescue that I've never met in person.
When I posted I was heading to Seattle, one of the other volunteers, Cindy, begged me to come visit her and her rescue puppy that I had actually gotten from a dog auction.
Mom and I headed out for what we thought would be a short visit with Cindy and then to explore a little of Mt. Rainier. After chatting for a little bit, Cindy offered to be our tour guide. We spent over eight hours going up and back down the mountain with this amazing person that was born and raised in the area and that gave us the most specialized tour we could have ever imaging.
This day - just like everything - fell into place. And that is usually how we travel, my mom and I; we just go with the flow and everything ends up being perfect.
Even though Mike has passed away, I remain close to his wife, Patty. She has a daughter named Trish that is my age, who makes beautiful custom jewelry. I am Facebook friends with both Patty and Trish, as Mike was always open and honest with them and his son about me from the get-go.
About two years ago, Trish was in a jewelry show that was maybe an hour and a half from me, so I asked my girlfriend if she would go with me to surprise Patty and meet her in person for the first time.
I was a nervous wreck when we got to the parking lot. I walked in and Patty was in the back. I went right up to her and she knew exactly who I was. We hugged for a long time and then started talking like we've always known each other. It was wonderful. We decided we needed to get together again and since Trish was busy with the show, she didn't get to talk with us much, and we needed more one-on-one time.
About a year ago, Patty and I decided to meet up and Trish was going to come but fell ill. I had asked my mom to join us. We met at this cute little place about an hour from me. The three of us talked and laughed again like we've all known each other our entire lives.
Patty brought me a picture of Mike from when he was younger. She was cleaning out things from their house and thought I would like it. I carry it with me in my wallet every day. It was emotional, it was sweet and it was comfortable.
Mom and I got back in the car to leave and I'll never forget her saying to me, "Thank you for including me in this part of your life." Brings me to tears, the sweetness behind that. I guess as scared as I ever was of telling her that I was searching for these people, she was just as scared of maybe being left behind.
For Christmas last year, I bought one of Trish's custom pieces for my mom. She wears it all the time and constantly gets compliments. We are all now connected in some way. Mom and I both look forward to seeing these ladies in mid-September. We are family, and I am so happy to have all of them in my life.
* * * *
Carrie Goldman is the host of Portrait of an Adoption. She is an award-winning author, speaker, and bullying prevention educator. Follow Carrie's blog Portrait of an Adoption on Facebook and TwitterTo continue receiving posts from Portrait of an Adoption, simply type your email address in the box and click the "create subscription" button.